Lightning Strikes Twice
by AriaAdagio
Summary: MerDer, post Time After Time. Derek takes Meredith to meet his family in Connecticut, but nothing goes as planned. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: This story is based off at least two ridiculous cliches and one minor one. I realize that. This was an idea that struck me shortly after I wrapped up SOSG, and it just wouldn't let me not write it, no matter how embarrassing it was for me to surrender to it. Without spoiling you, I just want to say I hope you'll have a little faith, and that you'll follow me on this journey to the end. Because I think you might be surprised at where I end up :) **

**This story follows directly after the episode Time After Time. It is solidly in the MerDer camp. I hope you enjoy it! **

* * *

Derek didn't come home until three in the morning. 

Meredith had called and called after Susan had finally left, called and given up around eleven when he'd simply refused to pick up. She'd gone to bed, sighing at the absence of him. 

She tossed, she turned, she fidgeted, unable to rest knowing that, for some reason, Derek was off doing something that he obviously didn't want her involved in. She missed him... Missed hearing him next to her, missed him hogging the bed, missed him spooning her, missed spooning him. 

The front door creaked open and shut. She barely heard it, and only then because she'd been listening to the annoying, pounding silence of his abandonment. A shuffle of movement happened downstairs. She wondered if it was Alex or Izzie, but hoped it was Derek. She hadn't checked before she'd gone to sleep to see if either of her fellow interns was home. She just hadn't cared much, stuck in the painful embrace of too many denied phone calls. 

Blearily, she glanced at the clock. 3:00 AM on the dot. She rested on her side, listening to the flow of life downstairs. Whoever it was wandered into the kitchen, paced in an ambling fashion back into the foyer and stopped, stopped and just stood there for the longest time. The steps creaked as said person lumbered up the steps, moving like a plodding beast on the last dregs of its life. 

When her door pushed its way open, she sighed in relief. Derek then. He'd come home. Worry she hadn't even realized she'd harbored slicked away in a downpour of relief. She lay there, listening as he shuffled across the floor in the dark. The digital alarm clock on her side of the bed read 3:17 AM in large, blurry red numerals. She blinked at it. 

He sighed somewhere behind her like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders, only to slip off into freefall and start dragging him down with it in clenching, grasping fingers. The air thickened with the depression that sluiced off him in waves. She didn't even have to look to sense how broken he felt. 

A drawer groaned behind her as he yanked it open, slow and deliberately, like a crush of weariness was forcing him to think extremely hard about his movements. There was a rustle as he changed into his pajama pants and a t-shirt. He went into the bathroom briefly, closing the door partway, clunks and clatters following as he brushed his teeth, urinated, and ran the water in the sink.

When the bed dipped with a squeak, when he collapsed next to her and didn't make a move to pull her into his arms like he usually did, she rolled over to face him, only to find herself staring at his back as it shuddered under the heavy weight of his deep breathing. The vague scent of alcohol wafted from him, just behind the musky male scent that always made her weep with desire.

"Derek?" she whispered.

"I thought you were asleep," he said, his voice thick and rough. He didn't turn around.

"I suck at sleeping when you're not here. You've messed me up entirely," she replied, a light, tired chuckle rasping in the silence.

He didn't laugh. "Sorry," he said.

"What's wrong? Did something happen at the hospital? Where were you?"

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing, Derek."

He rolled to face her. His eyes glittered in the dark light. "I'm not going to get it, Mere," he said.

"Get what?"

"Chief," he said. "I'm not going to get the job."

"Why not?"

"I'm just. Not."

"They'll pick you," she tried to assure him, wondering what on earth the Chief could have told him this morning that had gotten him into such an awful funk. "You're the best for it. Mark's too much like an overgrown adolescent, Burke has that tremor thing in his closet, Marlow is leaving, Cristina told me earlier, and Addison is... Well, you're just the best for the job, Derek. Seriously. You'll get it."

"You don't..." he stuttered, his voice falling off a cliff into silence. 

She stared at him, watched the struggle march across his face in a rapid succession of vastly different emotions. He looked like he wanted to say so many things, like he wanted to explain everything, and yet, the words remained stuck in his throat, not coming out, and he lay there, staring at her darkly, silent, preoccupied, almost angry. 

"I don't what?" she asked.

He swallowed. His eyes creased as he looked at her like... Like a starving man presented with the last piece of chocolate on earth. "I need..."

"You need what?"

He pulled her up against his body. She started at the sudden movement, only to relax into the warmth. He was always so warm, like her own private burner to heat the sheets. He ran his hand up over her hip, back and forth, and she sagged into the touch, ignoring the dark, dark look he gave her like a naughty present to unwrap. 

"Do you love me?" he asked, abrupt, his voice gruff and cracking.

"Yes," she replied.

He rolled over her and brought his mouth down onto hers, writhing, rolling against her, until she felt like a tiny rock under the crush of his sudden wave. "Derek," she moaned as he rubbed his groin up against her, rubbed and teased and tormented. Even through her sleep shorts, even through his pants, she could feel him pressing up against her, throbbing, growing. She reached down and pushed her hand against him. He groaned and shoved into her touch, and then he pulled away, leaving her bereft.

His hands ran up underneath her arms, and he dragged her across the bed, until she lay across it diagonally. He crouched by her head and leaned forward, his palms starting a slow, sensual trip from her shoulders, down over her breasts, all the way to her waistline. He leaned against her, over her, his arousal pressing into her as he slipped his hands under the waistband of her pants. He let the elastic catch on the bends of his wrists, and he drew his hands down the inner length of her legs, sliding her sleep shorts along with them, down over her skin, soft, smooth, and slow, leaning closer, closer, closer to her as he went. 

He drew back up to start the journey again, and she arched into it, arched against him as he started licking a trail of fire from her navel to her dampening panties. His fingers curled around the thin lace straps that ran over her hips, and he slipped them away, down past her knees. His tongue roved lower and lower, into the vee at the juncture of her thighs. His cheeks rubbed the damp, slick inner skin of her quads. His palms slipped between her legs and he spread her apart, curling his tongue down into her. He flattened out against her like a settling wave, grinding into her. His ribcage slid across her upper body, rubbing her nipples. 

She gasped, clawing at his pants, out of control, yanking them down in a sudden need to feel him. The length of him sprang free, and she ran her teeth along the underside. He started to quiver, to push against her in small, thrusty, uncontrolled jerks, even as he worked her lower body into a sopping, tense, glorious mess. Bucking into him as he drew a stuttering, hitching moan of desire from her like he was unweaving a thread from a tapestry, she gripped his hips with her nails, dug into the skin, and took him into her mouth, all the way down. He pumped into her, rubbing along the roof of her mouth, her tongue, and she moaned as he licked and sucked and ravaged her with sweeping, practiced, careful pressure that made her want to shiver up into a ball and die. 

Just before she hit the peak, he rolled off her, lifted out of her, panting, gasping, and she lay there glassy-eyed, stuck just before an explosion that should have come but hadn't. Fuzz gripped the corners of her vision, fuzz and painful need. She whined at him, unable to stop herself as she started to shake with the denied release. "Derek, please," she hissed. "Don't stop!"

He took an agonizing moment to gather his senses, and then he flipped himself around and pushed into her all the way like a desperate, out of control jackhammer. He slipped in and out at a frantic pace as he brought his mouth down on hers, panting, breathing with quiet, choking gasps. She tasted both him and her on his lips, slippery, salty. She sighed into him, bit his lip and sucked. He jerked at the sharp sensation, pulled back, but then a smirk slipped across his face, and he came down on her like a thunderstorm of sensation, his lips a sprinkle of pleasant lightning strikes in the torrent.

"Do you need me?" he whispered into her mouth, a throaty, harsh bit of words, jumbled up between grunting thrusts that set her teeth on edge. The headboard thunked against the wall with the violent, shuddering force of him. She felt like he was spearing her into two separate pieces. She arched up into him, arched and sighed and gasped as his angle, the sheer power served to stimulate her into a wired, trembling pile of torturous needing.

"Yes," she panted. "Yes, I need you. Derek, more. Derek, harder. Please."

She clawed at his hips, grabbed at his ass, trying to guide him, to force him to keep up the mindless, delirious pace, but as she curled under him, shaking, begging, he slowed. "No, please," she said, whimpered, whined, clenching around him. "Please, Derek." 

He withdrew to the tip, hung there over her, shuddering, heaving, every muscle in his body a block of solid, straining tension, only to run up into her again with a groan. He rested inside her, breathing, his face twisted with a dark look of unadulterated... wildness. And then he did it again. And again. And again.

She shouted, dragging her nails down against his skin every time he pushed into her, shouted until she was hoarse, barely able to give him any more encouragement than a throaty, lusty, whispery growl. He continued in the slowest torture she'd ever experienced, until the world above her was only him as she waited for him to fill her again, only to shake and beg and whine when he left her. Everything was a blur. His skin was slippery with sweat. His hair was a bloom of wild curls that she grabbed and twisted roughly between her fingers whenever she could reach them. 

When he ran her through again, she grabbed his head, splayed her palms against his cheeks, across his ears, and clenched. She contracted her lower body around his length, and shook, and shook. Sweat dotted his brow. His eyes flared at her in a sort of wild, out of control way. His mouth formed a grimace of... pain, pleasure... she couldn't tell which. His teeth formed a snarl.

"Please, Derek," she pleaded when she had his eyes caught in her gaze. He stared like a bird caught in the thrall of a snake. The intensity scared her beyond reason. "I do need you, Derek," she panted, nonsensically knowing it was what he wanted to hear, though she had no idea why, no idea why it was suddenly important to him.

"Let me go," he growled. "And you can have me."

She dropped her hands, and the delicious assault began all over again, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. She felt like a mountain climber, scrabbling at the rocks, pawing, trying to keep her footing, knowing that the most exquisite freefall awaited her, but enjoying the view, the fresh air, the thrill of being up so high, so much that she almost didn't want to jump yet.

He pushed her back into the pillows with a thrust that made her shout so loud her vision blurred and her chest throbbed with the lack of air in her lungs. He gripped the headboard up above her. She watched his arms flex and tremble as he put his weight into it, put his weight into her, in and out and in and out in a dizzying, violent race that she didn't want to ever end. 

"Derek," she panted. "Derek, more. More! Harder!"

For the last time, he rammed into her with a tremendous heave. He looked down at her, panting, held there in the middle of something, his eyes frenzied, and then his entire body jerked, his eyes darkened into something unseeing and panicked and overwhelmed. He rolled his head back and looked at the ceiling, practically roaring in triumph at her. She felt him seep inside her, seep and twitch and move. He flinched up against her in a series of short, tiny motions as he continued to twitch, and the feel of his pelvic bone jamming against her rubbed her just right, sent her into her own pealing waves of throaty screaming. She squeezed his hips as he yanked on the headboard, thrashing in his own nonsensical whirlwind.

They both collapsed, gasping. Except as she came back to her senses, as the stars stopped circling, leaving her with a languishing, dull, throbbing, sated sense of ease, he kept gasping.

"Derek?" she asked. She turned, only to find him staring at the ceiling, his eyes watering and red as he visibly shook, trying not to fall apart. 

"It's not a mistake..." he gasped. 

"What?" she asked. She rolled up against him, reached over his forehead to play with a wayward curl. Everything was slick with sweat. He was covered with the flush of recent sex, but under that lay a pale crush of exhaustion and anxiety. "Derek, what's wrong?"

"Please don't," he said.

"Don't what?"

"Die."

The word was like a gavel coming down with a crack. Her sense of easy, tired, aching satisfaction tore away from her. "What? What are you talking about? Derek?"

He turned to her, his eyes hooded with lust and fear and other dark, needy things. "You can't do this to me again."

"Do... what?" she asked, swallowing. "Derek, you're scaring me."

"I'm scaring you? Meredith, please..." His tone wilted into a throaty, pleading whisper that made her heart break. He clutched her shoulders, clutched at her like he expected to close his eyes and wake up again to find her vanished, out of his grasp. 

"I'm not going to die, Derek. I'm fine. You just made me so amazingly fine I could very possibly shoot into orbit. What the hell is wrong?"

"Don't ever give up again. Please don't. Please. I know you-- Please, just don't."

Her world froze solid at the words, and all she could suddenly think was that he knew. Somehow, he knew. Knew that she'd had one bad moment where she'd been too tired to care that she was dying. So tired, she'd thought it might be better to just slip away. The fear, the dark angst all crawling across his face... It suddenly made sense. Somehow, he knew, had known, and the pieces all started falling into place, giving her a macabre, twisted picture of what might be going on in his head.

"I won't, Derek," she said, staring deep into his wounded, tortured gaze. "I promise."

He rolled on his side and let her curl around him like a drape. She ran her hands over his side, feeling the ripple of his ribcage between her fingers. "I'm not going anywhere, Derek. I swear it," she said, the vehemence ruining what was left of her voice.

"It's not a mistake then," he whispered.

"No," she replied. "It's not."

Whatever he was talking about, whatever he meant, she didn't care. All she cared was that he knew about what she'd done, had known all this time and he hadn't said a word. His hovering, his strange, rampant too-cheerfulness, it stuck in her mind's eye like a bloody abrasion. 

"I would have told you sooner," she said. 

"It doesn't matter," he replied.

"It does, Derek. I'm sorry."

He didn't answer for a long while, long enough that she thought he might have fallen asleep, finally a victim of his own, tired upset. But then he heaved an abnormally large breath, and his words crawled at her in a horrible whisper, "Did you know I'm the one who pulled you from the water?"

She swallowed. "What? No... Nobody told me. I thought someone from the Coast Guard... or something..." 

Tears pricked her eyes, pricked and started to fall. She'd never meant... never meant for him to find her in the water like that. She hadn't really thought any of it through until after the fact, when it was too late to change, anyway. But she never would have wished that on him, never.

He sighed. "Don't do it to me again."

"I won't, Derek. I promise."

She rubbed his side, massaged him and soothed him deep into what was left of the morning, until the tension leaked out of his frame, and his breathing slipped into a peaceful, even rhythm. She let herself drift, soaking in the warmth of him, relaxing at the sound of his steady breathing. The sight of his back blurred, and she slowly lost her grip on conscious thought.

"Thank you for saving me," she slurred against the warm skin of his neck.

And then she fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

"Mom..." Derek sighed into the phone, collapsing his face into the clutch of his nervously twitching hand as he leaned on the desk, a tension headache slowly developing. She'd ambushed him, calling him on his office phone so he couldn't screen the call. He'd answered it without thinking, spewing his normal spiel, blah, blah, Derek Shepherd, Department of Neurosurgery, how may I help you? He'd been in the middle of reviewing charts, an activity he'd fast put aside when he'd realized who was calling. The pen he'd dropped in shock had long since rolled to the floor and was cowering under his desk somewhere while he winced and moaned under the weight of her litany.

She'd ripped into him before he'd even finished greeting her, and the conversation had been going downhill from there. He hadn't spoken to her in months. Not since before he'd finally signed the divorce papers. He hadn't called her, and he'd carefully not picked up whenever she happened to call him. It seemed she'd finally figured out a way to buck his careful system of avoidance. And so now, every thing, every major life event, namely Meredith, Meredith, and Meredith, was now a topic of heated discussion. He wondered how badly Nancy had skewed the picture of his situation with the rest of his family. From what his mother was saying, Nancy couldn't possibly have twisted things any more.

"No, Derek," his mother said, forcing him back to the ordeal at hand. "You don't get to say no. We haven't seen you in over a year. I want to meet that slutty young girl who-"

"Meredith. And she's not slutty," he hissed at her.

"Yes, her," his mother replied. "You'll bring her, right?"

"Meredith doesn't really do families."

"What do you mean, she doesn't do families? Everyone has a family."

He sighed and drummed his fingers on the desk. "Mom, her mother is dead, and her father abandoned her when she was just a kid. She doesn't do families, and I certainly don't want to drag her kicking and screaming into the middle of mine. She and Nancy didn't really hit it off all that great. I can't imagine her dealing well with a swarm of you people."

"Well, she'll do this family, Derek. You missed Christmas, you missed Thanksgiving, we're having the annual get together, and you're not missing it. You have plenty of leave. I know you do, because you never spend it. All you do is work. I want to see you. Don't make me come to Seattle. Are you still living in that awful trailer Nancy told me about?"

"No, I'm living with Meredith."

His mother gasped and went silent for a moment, and he could just imagine her sitting there with her head spinning. He hadn't meant to be so blunt about it, but he couldn't help it. He felt poked and prodded, and ready to snarl at the next jab already. He loved his mother, he did, but sometimes her parochial values frustrated him. It's why he'd never really explained Meredith to her in the first place, never really explained any of it, any of the Seattle stuff. 

Yeah, Mom, I had a one-night stand that turned into a fling that turned into the rest of my life. Hope you understand why my eleven year marriage exploded. I never really loved Addison, not like I should have, anyway. And, by the way, my career is going up in smoke. Bye now. 

Not likely. The dull throb behind his eyes became a steady pounding.

He groaned and shook his head as his mother recovered enough to splutter, and then resume.

"You'll bring her, Derek," his mother said, the pitch of her voice rising in a sudden frenzy. "You'll bring her, or I'll reserve a ballroom in a hotel and drag the entire family out to see you in Washington. I want to make sure-"

"I love her, Mom," he snapped, cutting her off before she could gouge him with more insults. "That's all that you should care about."

"I do care about that. But, Derek, you just divorced. God only knows why. And you just moved across the country. You're head of your department. Don't you think your life is a little busy, a little too shook up, to decide if you love somebody?"

"No. Love isn't deciding, Mom. Love is a bulldozer." And he was the pavement, crushed and flattened. He didn't add that part, though. He closed his eyes and ran a shaking, pinching grasp up and down his nose, trying to relieve the roaring in his head, but this, this conversation, all the crap that'd happened in the last few weeks, it all laid waste to his resolve, and he felt himself crumpling into a little stressed pile under the weight of it.

A sigh jammed through the phone. He pulled the receiver away from his ear with a wince at the loud buffet of sound. "Derek..." she said in a judging, harsh, disappointed tone.

"I'm serious," he snapped, his wits slowly dissolving as his nerves ran away with him. "I don't want to argue about this with you. I can't do this right now, Mom. There's too much stuff going on in my life to--"

"Exactly why you're coming to Sharon, Derek," she growled back at him. "The family wants to see you. All my grandchildren are wondering where their uncle went. Your sisters are worried. I'm worried. No, I'm distraught. I'm distraught, Derek."

"You mean the family wants to judge my new girlfriend. You're not distraught. You're sniffing out blood in the water."

Another sigh. "Come alone if it kills you that much to introduce her. I just miss my son. I don't know what's going on with you anymore. One day you're in New York, and suddenly you're in Seattle, running away from Addison, shacking up with some slutty girl you met at a bar who's ten years younger than you... You're the only one who hasn't given me grandchildren, and now you're throwing your life away on some young trophy thing..."

"You're not making me want to come to this thing, Mom."

"I'm sorry, I'm just-- Please. I'm just frustrated... I don't even know how to talk to you anymore."

"I'll see if she's interested," he said with a swallow. "But she won't be. I told you, she doesn't do families."

"Will you call me and let me know?"

"Yes, Mom. Look, I have to go. I have a consult."

"No you don't."

"Goodbye, Mom," he pressed.

She sniffed. "Goodbye."

He hung up the phone and collapsed against the desk with a heaving sigh, wilting under the crushing relief of having that over with. His mother was a force of nature. His whole family was a pack of rabid, frenzied nitpickers whenever they congregated. And now he would have to go see them, finally explain to them what the hell had become of him after he'd evacuated his life in New York. 

He'd known it'd been coming for a while. He'd known it as soon as Nancy had shown up all nosey and pushy and curious with a list of topics to address. But he'd hoped he'd have a little longer to figure stuff out on his own before he had to listen to them laughing at him, wondering what the hell he'd done with his life, criticizing him for screwing it up. 

Not a single one of them understood the whole mess with Addison yet, not even Nancy. She'd thought Addison's affair was a thing to toss aside and forgive as some stupid mistake. And he knew that everyone still kept in touch with Mark, still treated him like the family he wasn't, shouldn't be anymore. It pissed him off that, for some reason, he felt like he needed to justify himself to people he shouldn't have to justify himself at all to, to people that were supposed to take him as is, whatever he did, however much he fucked around with his life.

And yet...

When he thought about going home... he felt...

Longing. He ran his hands through his hair, wondering what the hell was wrong with him lately. Ever since Meredith had died... he'd felt unsettled. Unable to relax and enjoy life, but unable to confide in her because, well, she had enough of her own problems to deal with. He'd needed somebody to talk to so badly he'd started confessing himself to Susan, Meredith's estranged step mom. But it just wasn't the same... 

A noise at his doorway brought his gaze up from the cool grain of his desk. He blinked. Meredith stood at his doorway, staring at him with a raised eyebrow, her elbows crossed over her chest as she leaned at an angle that accentuated the curve of her hip. She wore her scrubs, a lilac-colored undershirt underneath them, and her hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail. She looked tired, which he really couldn't blame her for, given last night, but still... gorgeous. Her eyes had a twinkle, a spark that he'd seen slowly developing after the ferry accident. She looked vivacious. Lively. And he wanted to drink the sight of her down like a fine wine. It was so nice to see her happy.

She smiled as he met her eyes. "What was that all about?"

"You heard all that?" he asked. How had he not noticed her standing there? She practically glowed.

She shrugged. "Just the tail end of it. I was waiting for you to unwind yourself, but you kind of stayed down there on the desk for a while doing the sighing, groaning, stressy thing. Are you okay?" She walked around behind him, started working her fingers deep into his shoulders, and he couldn't help but lean into her touch.

"My mother is finally clocking in on my whole life situation," he said, groaning as she pressed the tense block of space between his shoulder blades. "It took her long enough. That feels really good."

"I thought you loved your family," she said as she rolled her fists along the upper muscles of his arms and shoulders.

"I do," he replied with a sigh as she undid knot after knot of rigid tension. "That doesn't mean they don't frustrate the hell out of me sometimes. My mom wants to know if you'll come to the yearly family get together in two weeks with me."

She paused her ministrations. "You have get togethers?"

"Yeah," he replied as she started working at his back again. He leaned down onto the desk with a relaxed, heaving groan, and she began to work lower toward his waist. "Most of my sisters still live around New York City, but Natalie flies in from Florida. I think they might commit fratricide if I don't go this time. I've missed the last three, at least. Addison went alone."

She ran her hands up his sides and brought them to rest, warm and welcome on his shoulders. "I don't have any leave, Derek..."

"I can make the Chief give it to you if you really want to go, Meredith."

She sighed. She spun his chair around and sat in his lap, rather unprofessionally, but he didn't care at all at this point. It wasn't like he was fighting for a promotion anymore. The Chief had made the glass ceiling pretty clear in this instance. 

He wrapped his arms around her, trying not to think bitter thoughts as he soaked her in. The lavender scent of her conditioner brushed against the back of his throat, thick as the bloom of a real flower, and he sighed, relaxing into it, letting it drug him into a calm stupor. 

"I don't really want to go," she finally said as she twisted her fingers in his hair, her face inches from him.

He smiled at her. Her reaction wasn't surprising. "That's what I thought," he said. "I'll just go by myself. There's no reason for you to be caught in the crossfire anyway."

"I didn't say I wouldn't go, Derek. I just said I didn't want to."

He frowned. "Come again?"

She kissed him, licking his lips, nipping. He groaned into her as she pulled back to whisper, "I have to meet them sometime, right?"

"Well... I was kind of hoping no. They're sort of like piranhas, and I'm already in the doghouse..."

"Yes, well, you can daydream all you want, but seriously..."

"Seriously, I think they'd murder me if I never introduced you."

She shrugged, the motion of it rolling off her shoulders. "So, I'll go."

He stared at her blankly, trying to keep himself pulled together despite the feeling of the floor dropping away.

She frowned at his reaction. "I wasn't kidding when I said I wasn't going anywhere, Derek. Let me prove it."

"You're willing to meet my rabid pack of sisters just to... to?" he asked, unable to finish the thought as a breathless wonder overcame him. Meredith didn't do families. Meredith hated families. Meredith and moms and parents and siblings didn't mesh. Meredith and a loving home was like an Exxon oil slick over water. They didn't mix, they were cataclysmic, and no sane person would ever want to force them together unless they were sadistic. Not without expecting disaster. And yet... she was offering to meet his own cluster of neurotic relatives... for what? To please him? To show him she was serious?

"I guess so..." she mused. She splayed her fingers against the nape of his neck as he stared, just stared. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.

"I don't know..." he stuttered. "I guess I just... Really? You'll go?"

"Yes, if you can get the Chief to give me time off... Because I doubt he'd give it to me without some pressure. I just took a week off when I... Well. You know." 

She swallowed and looked down at her lap, sudden shame washing over her face and her tone, like she expected him to take what he knew and rub it into her like salt to a bloody wound. 

"You might be surprised what the Chief will do for you, Mere," he found himself saying before he could stop himself. He swallowed as she frowned at him. That had sort of just dripped out of him, unbidden. He'd been so flustered at her willingness to go with him to Connecticut that... well... it'd just slipped out from whatever passive aggressive corner of his mind had kept the thought prisoner. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid, he moaned inwardly at himself.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, her voice lightly curious, but it was clear that she was ready to dip down and reach for some hostility if she needed it. 

He winced at her tone and manhandled the bitterness back, deep down. This wasn't her fault. If anyone were to blame, it would have to be Ellis, who still had her claws hooked into this hospital long after she'd died. He had no right to be angry at Meredith, who, really, was as much a victim of Ellis as he was, more so even. And she was sitting there, leaning up against him, warm and soft and smelling like his favorite conditioner, trying so hard to placate him...

He sighed.

"Nothing," he whispered. He leaned in to kiss her, to drink her down again. "I'll talk to him," he muttered into her mouth as he breathed her in, enjoyed her light mood, relished it properly.

"Okay," she replied.

He stood, placing her on her feet as he did so, wincing as he somehow managed to stave off gravity and stay upright when his back and quads screamed in protest.

"Sore?" she asked with a grin.

"Um," he said, running his hands through his hair. "Yeah."

"Me too," she said. "You need to talk to Alex, by the way. He said he wants tips."

His eyes widened. "What?"

"I didn't hear the end of it this morning at the breakfast table. Izzie kept moaning and whining about how wrong it was that she knew how much her boss yells during sex. And Alex wanted to know if we broke the bed."

"Were we really that loud?" he asked with a frown. Well, she had screamed. A lot. Now that he thought about it. And he... well, he'd kind of degenerated into some sort of frenzied, rutting Neanderthal toward the end. A flush carpeted his skin when he thought about it, about their captive, trying to sleep audience. Way to win the respect of the intern population... 

"Kind of, yeah, Derek," she replied. She smiled brightly at him, the skin around her eyes crinkling up as her pupils glittered with mischief. She licked her lips as her gaze fell into a hooded, sexy, deep stare. "But I like loud. All that growling was hot."

"So says the screamer."

"It just means I'm not a hypocrite."

He smirked. "I'm more a fan of your innate flexibility than your screaming."

"Derek," she said with a laugh. 

"Not that I mind the screaming. More screaming, I say."

She laughed again. 

He sighed as he headed for the door. "I'll see you in the lobby later, and then we'll go home, okay? I know your shift is over, but I have to go talk to the Chief really fast about your leave, and then I have to do rounds on my post-ops. I only have two."

"Okay," she said.

He left her standing there behind him, and he couldn't help but smile as he walked away. She was actually going to go with him to Connecticut. That had been unexpected. And, as he thought about it, more welcome than he'd realized.


	3. Chapter 3

Airplanes had a hum to them. Derek sat, absolutely still, not even the thrum of his nervously drumming fingers on the tray table to interrupt, for once. He gripped the sides of the seat. The roar of the plane as it tore through the outside air condensed in the crush of the cabin's atmosphere, and over the gradual advance of time, it had become so atrocious, he was starting to develop a headache, until he could barely hear himself think anymore. Added on to that obtrusive, aching hum, there were the people, all cramped together in a tight space. The aisle constantly bustled with activity. Elbows jabbed him as clumsy or wide individuals walked past. Kids screamed. People listened to headphones so loudly that the whisper of music and the tinny tap, tap, tap of percussive torture was audible to everyone nearby. Everything combined into a whirlwind of unpleasant noise, and Derek found himself sitting stiffly, rigid with tension, unwilling to move or open his eyes. His head, which had already started to throb when the low pressure had popped his ears in rapid succession hours ago, was getting uncomfortable enough that he was debating stabbing his eyes out with a cocktail toothpick. Except, in economy plus, they didn't serve cocktails with toothpicks.

He and Meredith had managed to book flight reservations, but for some reason, for every single flight they'd tried to reserve seats on, first class had been completely sold out, which had forced them to move back to economy plus. There was extra legroom, at least, and the seats weren't quite as cramped as coach. But, for a five plus hour flight, it wasn't really the way he wanted to be traveling. Not even his frequent flyer miles from all his consults had gotten them anything worthwhile. At least Meredith, as tiny as she was, and as considerate as she was, hadn't even debated who got the middle seat.

"You don't like flying, do you?" Meredith said as she put her magazine down on her tray table. She had been happily amusing herself with a copy of Cosmo. Derek had gotten a few glances at it before he'd started degenerating into the usual flight-bound pile of tension, even had a good laugh when she'd gotten to the five tips to please your man in bed article... She'd merely giggled it off and said it was bubblegum for the mind. He hadn't had a chance to read the tips before she'd yanked the magazine away and tilted it toward herself, giving him no angle of leverage to view the text. His mind had drifted after that, allowing his body to register the noise, the discomfort.

"What?" he asked, ripped from his third act of cataloging each and every painful sound.

"Well," she said. "You're sitting there, all Mr. Shallow Breathing, gripping the armrests like you think they might fall off if you let circulation into your fingers." 

"Oh," he replied as she reached across and touched his hand. Her skin felt warm and dry against the back of his palm. He tried to let go of the armrests. The tendons in his hands and wrists ached they had been gripping them so stiffly.

She frowned. "And your hands are freezing. That's what it is, isn't it? The plane? You can't be this nervous about seeing your family, I hope..."

He shook his head vehemently. "No..." he stuttered. "No, of course not."

She grinned. "I never pictured you for the type."

"What type?"

"The type that hates planes," she replied with a shrug. She started to work at his fingers, work and rub and soothe. The act had a drugging effect, and his eyelids drooped as he started to relax a little.

"I don't hate planes," he mumbled as he leaned back in his seat. He force flexed all of his muscles at once into tight, solid balls, and then let them go in slow succession. A loitering ache spread into his legs and his back, and he squirmed in his seat just a moment before settling down again.

A perky, brown-haired stewardess in a navy flight dress walked past with a plastic trash bag, looking cheerful and false and overly done up as she offered the bag to him. He shook his head and muttered, "No trash." Meredith leaned across him and threw out a cup from the previous beverage distribution. The man in the window seat was conked out against the wall like a slobbering paste, and didn't seem to care one way or the other. He snored, low and gruff. Another sound to add to the raucous list of annoyances.

Derek glared as the stewardess smiled and moved on, relaxing a bit as she moved to the next row. He hadn't realized how much he'd flattened himself into the seat...

Meredith watched him, eyes glittering with amusement. "Well, you seem to hate being in them, even if you don't have an unhealthy plane prejudice yourself," she said.

He crossed his arms and sighed. "I'm not claustrophobic or anything," he said.

"I didn't say you were. Are you okay?"

He grinned at her with his best, yes I'm okay grin, hoping he didn't fail dismally. "I just don't like the roar. We could go try to join the mile high club. That might work to cure me..."

She frowned. "It's not worth it, Derek. Do you have any idea how small the lavatories are? And it's messy when you can't move to-"

"Wait," he said, interrupting her. "You've actually?"

Her frown deepened. "It's not a fond memory."

The look on her face, the way her lips pulled her entire face down into a dimpled, unhappy cast of dissatisfaction... He pulled his hand up to his mouth. The first snort, he managed to hide. But when she said, "Hey, you're laughing at me," he couldn't help it anymore, and was reduced to peals of laughter.

"You've actually..." he gasped. "I was kidding! You? I mean, I knew you liked to barhop for men in times of need, but..."

She practically growled at him. Her cheeks flushed into a pinkish tone, and her lower lip dipped into the most adorable pout... "It was before I went to med school."

"Don't tell me it was on your trip to Europe," he said, trying to recover at the thought of her trying to maneuver in one of those small bathrooms, her innate flexibility notwithstanding. Her face grew even more dour at his words, and he plunged into laughter again. "Oh, it was, wasn't it?"

"Shut up, Derek," she snapped. "At least I'm adventurous!"

He reigned in his mirth, only to picture it again. "No wonder you had an epiphany and went to medical school. It's what happens when you have bad sex with a Frenchman."

"And you would know that how?" she asked. Her amusing lack of amusement looked like it was dripping lower into genuine anger, and he immediately tried to tamp it down.

"I wouldn't," he said. "I'm just teasing, Mere. Sorry."

She glared at him, her arms crossed over her chest. "No, you're not."

"Okay, fine. I'm not sorry." He grinned at her. "You're just so cute when you're miffed."

She reached down and started to fiddle with her magazine, flipping the pages, rolling it into twists. "So, how is this going to work?" she asked after a long pause.

He frowned. "You seriously want to try? I'm game..."

She took the magazine and whacked his shoulder with it. Unable to dodge, he took the hit with a frown, but slowly dissolved back into a grin when she grinned back. For a moment, their eyes met, and he forgot all about the shitty plane ride, the fact that he wanted to stretch and run around in laps if only to ease the tension, and the pounding thrum of the noise on his eardrums. She snaked her arms around his neck and kissed him, and what remained of his nerves shed away like an extra layer of clothing. And then a stewardess brushed past and ruined everything. He pulled back and jammed up into his private ball of tension. Meredith frowned, licking her lips, a slight flush dusting her face as she panted. 

"I meant meeting your family, Derek," she said as she recovered. "You have such a gutter-bound mind."

"Me? Just who is kissing whom, might I ask?" he said. She opened her mouth to protest, and he quickly rushed to add, "Not that I mind. Please continue, if you want."

She sighed. "Seriously, Derek."

"Seriously, Mere," he replied, mimicking her exhausted tone, though it wasn't much of a stretch to imitate at this point. He ran his hands through his hair. "It will be fine after they warm up to you."

"Are we talking recovering from a minor ice age type warming, though, or just kind of... temperate to tropical?"

"Mere, they're more mad at me right now. I'll be there to take the brunt of it. Everything will be fine. You just be you," he said, smiling as he reached to run a finger through her hair. She leaned into the touch with a smile. "And I'll run them off with a shovel if things get bad."

At first, he thought he'd gotten to her, made her relax a little, but then a grimace pulled her face into a creased look of worry. "I'm never going to live up to Addison, am I?"

"What makes you think you have to live up to her at all?"

"I-"

"Mere, my family isn't like yours," he said. "It might take a few tries. But everything will work out once they figure out I'm serious about you."

"That would make me feel better if it didn't sound like you were trying to convince yourself as well. It's not just the airplane that's making you this nervous. Is it."

"Maybe I..." He paused.

A pang of guilt struck him as he looked at her, all worried and gorgeous and genuinely concerned with the impression she was going to make to his family. He'd been nervous about it at first, really nervous, but it'd dulled the more he mulled over it. It'd been so, so long since he'd had to endure it, but they'd been just as judgmental about Addison at first, and they'd grown to love her dearly. When he'd brought her to meet them, back when the both of them had still been in medical school, his mother had just about had conniptions. He couldn't even remember the rant at this point. When they'd gotten engaged, though, his mother had cried she'd been so happy. So, it would be okay, he assured himself. He hoped it would be okay immediately, but if it wasn't, it definitely would be in the long run. And that was good, because Meredith... Meredith needed a family that she didn't think of on the same level as Chinese water torture.

Then again, the issue was compounded at the moment. Compounded by other issues that were entirely not Meredith's fault. And by bringing her along for this trip, it probably would be worse than it should be. He sighed. 

"What?" Meredith prodded. "Maybe you what?"

He blinked. "Maybe I should have come alone this first time. I... I don't know. I don't want all the shit I've done to mess things up for you. But I..."

One of her eyebrows peaked. "You..."

"I like that you're here," he said with a shrug. And, really, it was as simple as that.

She smiled in a grin that crept up around her eyes and pinched them into a narrow, truly jovial look. Her eyes sparked. And the blush that came this time wasn't one of embarrassment or anger. 

"So," she said, clearing her throat when the moment became so thick he thought he might jump her right there. "Are you, uh, are you going to take me on the Derek tour of Manhattan to make up for my pain and suffering? I've never been carted around by a native before."

He smiled. "Maybe on the way back we can leave a day early. But Mom's expecting us for dinner tonight, so no time when we land."

"Okay," she said. "Do they serve tequila on planes?"

"Only in bottles the size of your thumb." He drew up her hand and kissed it. He whispered into her knuckles, "It's hardly worth it."

"Damn," she replied with a frown.

"It'll be all right, Meredith," he said. "And even if it's not, after this week, if you really can't stand them, I'll never let them near you again. I promise."

Her serious look darkened. "I don't want you to give up your family just because I suck at them, Derek."

"You don't suck at families, Meredith," he said. "You just haven't had the right one to enjoy yet."

She leaned into him, leaned until her face was an inch from his own. Another beautiful smile blossomed on her face. He just about died in her gaze. "Sap," she whispered.

"So," he said, leaning in to kiss her quickly. "Now I'm a sap in addition to gutter-bound?"

Her hands wrapped around his neck, and he felt her fingers snaking up through his hair. "Yep," she whispered, millimeters from his lips. "But you're cute, at least."

He raised an eyebrow, basking in the heat that wafted from her skin, so close to his own. "You sure you don't want to do the mile high thing? You've got me curious."

"Derek..."

"Right. Behaving now, else I get deprived later."

She laughed and relaxed back into her seat, peeling her issue of Cosmo open to the place she'd left off at. Some picture of a muscle-clad, overly tanned male model, naked in a tub with suds in just the right places to obscure the goods. He sighed. 

"You're making me jealous, you know," he whispered in her ear.

She closed the magazine. "I'm going to try tip number four on you tonight. No need to be jealous."

He reached for the magazine. "What's tip number four?"

She pulled the magazine back and thwacked his hands with it. "It's a surprise," she whispered throatily.

A sudden squeal brought his gaze up to the speakers overhead. "All right, folks," a jovial male voice who'd earlier introduced himself as Captain Asherton said. "We're getting about ready to begin our final descent into LaGuardia. If you look out the windows on the left side of the plane, you'll get a great view of the city. We should be touching down in about twenty minutes."

"Thank god," he grumbled. 

Meredith ran her hand along his forearm in a soothing motion. 

He tried not to paste himself into the seat this time during landing, but as they skidded onto the runway and thunked up and down as the plane tried to settle, he couldn't help it anymore, and he was a tense pile again. Only when the plane finally taxied into the gate did he inhale something that resembled an actual breath. People crushed all around him as he reached overhead for his and Meredith's carryon bags. 

They slowly departed the plane, managed to go find their luggage without issue at the baggage claim, and went over to the rental desk to pick up the car. Meredith leaned up against the counter, hip jutting sexily at him while he commissioned a mid-sized sedan. The rental agent slid the keys across the desk with a smile. Derek grasped them in one hand and pulled away from the counter with the rental agreement fisted in the other hand. Meredith rolled their suitcases along. He would have taken one from her, but she looked happy, appeared to be enjoying exploring, even just the airport terminal. 

"Haven't you been here before?" he asked as they trundled to the rental shuttle and her gaze continued to wander around in a sweeping set of stares that just screamed her tourist status.

She shrugged. "New York, yes, once or twice. LaGuardia, no. We always just drove from Boston. This place is..."

"Busy?"

"I was going to say huge. But busy works as well," she said as the bus driver for the rental shuttle came around to grab their luggage. They took a seat cramped between dozens of other people wanting cars and were taken out to the lot.

The bus dropped them off right at the car. He popped the trunk and put the luggage in it while Meredith settled in the passenger side seat. He came around and adjusted all the mirrors, checked the gas level, and fixed the seat to his preference. He turned to her and grinned as he turned the key in the ignition. "Okay, we should be there in about two and a half hours, give or take. Doing okay?"

She nodded.

"Well, on your left," he said as they navigated out of the airport parking lot and onto the main road, "You have a view of the water. We'll cross the Whitestone Bridge soon."

"Mmm," she murmured. "You have a sexy tour guide voice."

He laughed. "Well, that was pretty much my entire spiel. Manhattan is mostly behind us. And after we get out of the city there won't be much to look at, I'm afraid."

"So, two hours, huh?"

"Roughly."

She shuffled around and pulled out her copy of Cosmo again. "Might as well finish it before it gets dark."

He grinned. "Are you going to tell me about tip number four?"

"Nope," she said. "I told you. It's a surprise."

He licked his lips. "I'll hold you to that. No balking because it's my mother's house."

She chuckled, and he drove across the bridge.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes: Thanks so much for the feedback all :) I will reply individually asap, but I'm posting remotely on a business trip right now, so my time is relatively limited. Anyway, really, thank you so much for the comments! **

* * *

The car skidded to a stop, and Meredith sat there for a moment, stunned, blinking. A myriad of spider web patterns lanced out across the windshield. Her airbag was out, slowly deflating in her lap with a hiss. She swallowed and blinked. What. 

What?

One moment the road had been clear. The next, something had darted out in front of them, the barest ghost in the headlights. Meredith hadn't even had time to gasp in surprise before it had slammed into them. There'd been a horrific shrieking, roaring, breaking noise, followed by a pop. White had flown up into her face as she'd pitched forward. The car had spun. The windshield had snapped and crunched, and a series of thuds had clunked down the back of the roof overhead.

What? She blinked again.

The hood of the car, barely visible beyond the windshield, was shorter than it should have been. Shorter, and bent up like an accordion in the middle. The car ticked quietly in the new silence, like an engine settling on a hot day. The headlights had both gone out, shrouding the road in front of them in darkness, only the moon overhead providing any sort of light.

"Derek?" she whispered, her voice coming out in a gasp. She started to shake as she fumbled with her seatbelt. She turned to look at him when there was no answer.

His chin rested on his chest, and he hung there, slightly forward in his seatbelt like a broken rag doll. Blood poured over his crown and down onto his face. Painful stillness held him in a limp, bleeding pile. She frowned when she noticed his airbag wasn't out.

"Derek?" she said. She reached over to his neck, felt along his jugular, and relief swelled when she got a relatively steady pulse thumping back against her fingertips. "Derek, wake up!" He didn't stir, didn't moan, didn't do anything. She swallowed back fear.

Shaking, she fumbled for her purse. Where. Where was her purse? It. It had been on the seat behind her. She turned around and searched for it in the darkness. Her side brushed Derek's shoulder as she looked, and she bit back a sob when he didn't react, just stayed there, dangling against his seatbelt, out cold, bloody. Phone. She had to get the phone. Had to call for help. Finally, her hands met with her purse strap. She yanked it back into the front seat and pulled out the phone. The signal she got was only two bars. She prayed as she dialed 911.

By ring number three, her heart was racing, and her breaths came in a speed just short of sobbing. Her eyes stung as she stared at Derek. She reached out and touched his shoulder, trying to reassure herself. But touching him, only to have him stay there, silent and unresponsive, scared her more. He looked dead. She would be convinced he were dead if it weren't for the pulse. She checked again just to make sure, and she was so wrapped up in it, that she barely heard the operator come on the line with a canned message about stating the nature of the emergency.

When the operator started saying, "Hello? Are you hurt?" it finally snapped her back to reality.

"Hel... Hello. I've been in... an accident," Meredith said, strangely lacking words, even as she searched for them desperately. "A car... car accident."

"Can you tell me where you are, ma'am?" The voice was rich and calm and male, and sounded like someone had sprinkled it with honey. It would have been soothing at any other moment but this one.

"I don't..." She breathed, trying to stay the panic. She had no idea where they were. None. Derek had known where they were going. He hadn't printed out maps or even told her directions. She'd just... happily watched the scenery go by. "Derek was the one who knew where we were going... I... I don't know."

"Is there another person in the car with you, ma'am?"

"Yes. My boyfriend," she said with a warbling sob. Together, Grey. Keep yourself together, she scolded. But everything felt shaky and bad. "He's unconscious."

"Are you on a highway? Was there anyone else involved in the collision?"

"No... it's... it's not a highway," she said, looking around. There was a double yellow line in the middle and only one lane on each side. Beyond that, she couldn't see a thing. "It's dark. I don't know... I think we hit an animal. I don't know... I don't..."

"Okay, calm down, ma'am. I need you to stay calm. We're trying to triangulate your signal. Is your boyfriend breathing?"

"Yes. Yes... He hit his head..."

"Are you injured?"

"N... no? I don't think so..." She sniffled, clawing at her face with her hands. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't. She would wake up in a few minutes, Derek would be hogging the bed, and she'd have to smack him with a pillow to get him to roll over. That was how this was going to work.

"Okay, ma'am, I've dispatched rescue workers to your location. The triangulation wasn't as accurate as it could be, so it might take them a while to find you. You don't see any road signs or anything?"

She blinked against the tears. "No. No, it's dark..." she stuttered. "And... And I... I don't know." Even if it had been light out, she doubted she would have been able to read any road signs. But it was moot. Moot because there were no signs, and there was nothing she could do. Wake up, she told herself. Wake up!

"Okay. Is your boyfriend still unconscious?"

She stared at Derek and felt for his pulse again. Still the same. And he was still out. "Yes."

"Does he show any other sign of injury?"

"He's bl-" She hitched on a breath. "Bleeding."

"Where is he bleeding?"

"His head. God, I-"

"Okay, ma'am, don't try to move him-"

"I know what to do," she snapped, wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it all. She was going to be a brain surgeon. A fucking brain surgeon. Derek actually was a brain surgeon. They fixed brains. And Derek was sitting there with a potential traumatic brain injury, and she couldn't do a goddamned thing about it. He couldn't do a goddamned thing about it. 

Concussion, she breathed, trying to stay her mind back on its original course. It wasn't a severe traumatic brain injury, it was just a concussion. Except Derek wasn't waking up. And people with concussions usually would have woken up by now. Usually.

"Ma'am?"

"I'm a surgeon," she said, gritting her teeth. Her eyes streaked over with salty tears again. She couldn't stop them. 

"Okay, ma'am. The ambulance is on the way, so just sit tight. Do you need to stay on the line with me?"

"No..." she said with a choke. "No, I have to take care of Derek."

"Okay, ma'am. Call back if you have any problems. The ambulance will be there as soon as they find you."

"How long?" she asked.

"You're in a rural area, ma'am. And we don't know exactly where you are."

Great. That meant it could be forever. She tried to breathe. She did. "Okay. Okay."

"Ma'am?"

"I'm fine. Thank... Thank you."

She turned to Derek as she hung up the phone. "Derek, can you hear me? Derek!" He still didn't move, and she bit back a sob. Concussion. It had to be a concussion. How long had it been? She shakily glanced at her watch. He must have been out for at least five minutes already. This was bad. 

She refused to think it was anything worse than a concussion. Not right now. 

Shaking, she got out of the car and shuffle stepped around to the driver's side. A deer lay mangled in the middle of the road behind them, not moving, not twitching, barely visible in the darkness. At least it had died quickly. The air chilled her as she started to pant with nerves. She opened the driver side door and knelt next to Derek. The cabin light turned on, giving her a dim view of the situation.

"Derek, come on. Can you hear me?" She squeezed his shoulder, dug her nails into it, trying to give him some painful stimulus. Nothing happened. He didn't even twitch. She dug in harder, almost willing to draw blood if it would just wake him up, but still nothing.

Sniffling, she leaned across him and grabbed a napkin from the center storage compartment. She was going to put it on his head to try to mop up some of the bleeding, and almost did, but then she thought better of it. The blood loss wasn't horrible yet, and if he had a skull fracture or something worse, pressure on the wound might do more harm than good. She wanted to scream at herself, scream for not thinking straight. She swallowed. Blood dripped down off the tip of his nose in a steady, slow drip, drip, drip. It was maddening, just watching it. Maddening and terrifying.

Concussion, she thought. Concussion, concussion, concussion. The kind athletes got after a good knock. They took a week or two or three off and were back at it. That's what it was. Concussion.

"Derek?" she prodded again, pushing on his shoulders gently, careful not to destabilize his neck any worse than it already was. God, what if he'd snapped his neck or his back or something? It was impossible to tell, especially in the piss poor light. "Wake up. Please, please wake up. You're scaring me. Please, Derek. Please."

The seconds ticked by. Drip, drip, drip. Where was the damned ambulance? 

She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "Please, Derek. Derek, wake up," she said, her voice warbling and crying, until she finally screeched, "Wake up, damn it!" Her words echoed off into the night and bounced. A wind blew through, chilling her to the bone, rustling as it fingered its way through the surrounding trees and grass and wilderness type things. 

She blinked, shivering, cowering by the car door. It was a concussion, she told herself. A bad concussion. He would wake up any moment now. Any moment, he would wake up. It wasn't diffuse axonal injury. It wasn't. Because that was something he wasn't likely to wake up from. And she refused to believe that he wasn't going to wake up. It wasn't a broken spine or a broken skull. She started to recite all the things it couldn't be, growing more panicked by the moment as she thought of worse and worse things that could have knocked him out like this. She hated it. Hated knowing all the possible causes.

Seconds stretched to minutes. Minutes stretched into longer.

When he moaned at twenty-two minutes and forty-seven seconds, she almost screamed, part in shock, part in happiness, part in general upset. She leaned next to him, squeezing his hand again, squeezing it hard, but he didn't squeeze back.

"Derek?" she asked, pawing at him frantically. "Derek, can you hear me?"

He swallowed. His hand twitched in her grasp. He snuffled, made a weird sound in his throat that could have been a word, and then he was vomiting all over his lap. She scooted back while he emptied himself. "Derek?" she said as he stopped retching and leaned his head back against the seat, finally raising himself up off the support of the seatbelt. "Derek, can you hear me?"

His eyelids fluttered. He moaned again, swallowed. His mouth moved like he was chewing something. Finally, he was awake, staring blankly ahead of him, not appearing to notice her at all. She dabbed his face with the napkin she'd been planning to use as a bandage. He was a mess. His nose dripped the blood that streamed down off his forehead. Vomit covered the front of him, and the smell of it almost made her nauseated enough to contribute to the mess. Yet all he did was stare and twitch. 

"Derek? Derek?" she asked, trying not to cry as he swallowed again and didn't make a sound other than a strange, pitching warble in his throat. His hand still twitched inexplicably in her grasp. He made another noise, like some sort of wounded animal. It tore her heart to shreds. She fought the panic that threatened to yank her down into an abyss of gelid fear. 

"Derek, can you speak to me? Do you know where you are?" she asked, trying to make her voice firm and loud and piercing, enough to break a stupor apart. His hand jerked in her grasp, and he turned his face toward the sound of her voice, but he just... he wasn't looking at her. In her direction, yes, but not at her. His stare was vacant, confused, blank. His head ticked a little with small, bitty tremors that almost made him look like he had Parkinson's disease or something.

He blinked at her, looking horrific as the blood continued to ooze down his pale face. "Wh..." he stuttered, breathing in short, tortured gasps through his mouth. "Wh..." he stuttered again. 

"Come on, Derek. Use a word. You can do it," she said, pleading, begging. She squeezed his twitching hand, trying to encourage him, trying not to cry as he sat there trembling, hurt, broken. God, just thirty minutes ago they'd been talking and laughing. And now... 

"I'm afraid to move you," she continued. "Can you hear me? Can you speak at all? Please, Derek. Say anything. Anything, please."

His lips rolled together and then parted. "Mmmer..." It could have been a groan. Could have been a word. She chose to grab onto hope and pretend it was a word.

"Meredith? Yes, it's me, Meredith," she said. "We hit a deer, Derek. Do you know where you are? Can you speak?"

Whatever headway she'd been gaining lost traction. His eyes slid shut. She squeezed his arm, hard. "Derek!"

His eyes creaked open again, but his gaze was even glassier than before. At least, from what she could tell in the dim light, his pupils seemed responsive, not blown or constricted, which meant, so far, he probably didn't have more than the obvious injury on his crown. God, she'd seen people come into Seattle Grace with concussions all the time, and it was disconcerting, yes, but she'd never realized how fucking scary it was to have someone you knew, someone you loved, vomiting, bleeding, unable to communicate properly, confused... 

Twenty minutes. He'd been out for twenty minutes. Which meant that this was really, really bad. Most concussions were rated in severity in terms of one minute, five minutes of unconsciousness. Ten minutes was already poking its way toward very severe... She almost wished she'd been ignorant right then about all the horrible things that might have happened that couldn't be seen with the naked eye. But he was awake, and his pupils looked fine so far, so she had to believe in the fact that it was just a concussion. Even concussions could kill, though. And this was a bad one. The tremors alone indicated a contrecoup injury on his cerebellum. She tried not to think about it.

"Please stay with me, Derek. I'm really scared. God, where is the ambulance?"

"Mere..." he moaned. Now that. That was a word. Her heart leapt.

"Oh, god, Derek," she said with a sob. "Can you hear me?"

"Dizzy," he said, slurred, almost like his tongue was too thick for his mouth. He blinked furiously, and his eyes watered over.

"I know. You hit your head, Derek. Do you remember?"

"Car?" he croaked.

"Yes, Derek. We were in a car accident. We hit a deer."

Another warbling noise tore through his throat. He swallowed. She clenched his hand tightly. He was silent again for a few twitching moments.

"Car?" he asked again.

She swallowed. This was normal, she told herself. Disorientation was normal. Normal for a concussion. People with concussions sometimes repeated themselves, not realizing it was something they'd just asked. He was fine. Fine, fine, fine. He had to be fine. 

"Yes," she said. "We hit a deer. The ambulance is coming."

He moaned, and that was the end of it. She couldn't get him to answer any more questions, no matter how hard she tried, how often she prodded or poked or said his name. He just stared, blank and lost, at the cracked windshield, though sometimes he would blink, have a moment of clarity, and ask or say something completely random. She wanted to tear him from the car and wrap him in her arms, but she refrained, somehow, and settled for just stroking his hand, his warm, trembling hand.

Finally, in the distance, she heard it. Heard the sirens. An ambulance followed by a police car pulled up in moments, and then there were people everywhere, crowding her, asking her questions. Flashing lights overwhelmed her as they backed her out of the way and started doing stuff to Derek, stuff she couldn't see, because they were too busy talking to her, talking at and crowding her. She started to cry, she couldn't help it.

They had him stabilized on a backboard by the time she came moderately back to her senses. He was staring up at the sky, blood all over his face, blinking, twitching slightly, not talking at all. He looked so helpless and alone... She wanted to start crying again, but she wiped her eyes and hopped into the back of the ambulance without even asking.

Soon, the siren was on, and they were heading back to whatever hospital. She hadn't even thought to ask where the hell they were. One of the paramedics kept trying to examine her, kept trying to touch her, flash lights at her, but she pushed him away, snapping and snarling. "I'm fine, damn it," she sobbed. They finally left her alone.

She held Derek's hand and stroked it. "Derek?" she'd prod every few moments, trying to give him something to hold onto, assuming there was any sort of coherency there. But he just lay there silent, staring unfocused at the ceiling of the ambulance. Every once in a while, he'd make a chewing motion, sort of half-swallow, and moan. It ripped her apart every time.

When they wheeled him into the trauma center, she followed, racing along like an intern. She acted like she knew what she was doing. The frantic speech of the EMTs as they explained Derek's vitals to the trauma team made sense to her. She nodded at appropriate moments. Hell, she even contributed. 

She watched with a sob stuck in her throat as the trauma team cut away his soiled clothes with scissors and threw them in a garbage bag. They checked for any obvious injuries besides the gash on his crown, and when they didn't find any, they left him behind a curtain, naked under a sheet, and he would have been all alone had it not been for her standing there, frozen between sobs, in shock at how it felt to be on the other side of things for once. They didn't think to question her presence until a doctor trotted over to examine him moments later and found her behind the curtain where only Derek was supposed to be. 

"Ma'am, you can't be here," the doctor said. He was a tall stick of a man, with two days of beard growth, and oversized wire frame glasses. Had it been any other moment but this one, she might have thought he seemed nice. But at the moment, he was the enemy. She glared when he told her, "You need to go to the waiting room."

"Are you going to get a CT? An MRI? He's got at least a severe concussion, and I think he might have picked up a coup-contrecoup injury, too. He's got tremors. That indicates bruising on the cerebellum, right?" she said frantically, ignoring the scruffy doctor's protests. This wasn't Seattle Grace. This was probably some hick hospital. She was immediately prejudiced against everything. Especially the fact that the doctor wore mismatched scrubs. Mismatched scrubs were stupid. Who wore navy with green? It was stupid. He probably didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

The doctor pondered her for a moment. "How long was he unconscious?" he asked as he picked up Derek's hand and watched it tremble for a moment.

"Twenty-two minutes. He's been minimally responsive since the ambulance ride, though before that he was talking to me, just a little."

The doctor turned to Derek. "Hello? Can you hear me?" He turned to Meredith, his eyebrows raised. "His name?"

"Derek," Meredith said. "Derek Shepherd."

"Derek Shepherd! Are you awake? Do you know where you are?" the doctor said. 

Derek blinked and moaned, his stare wandering blankly. Then he started to thrash and choke a little, as much as the stabilizers would let him. Meredith drew her hands to her mouth, trying not to cry as the doctor called over some nurses. "Okay, it's okay," the doctor soothed as the team of them rolled Derek on his side and he vomited again. Derek convulsed and jerked as he emptied out more of his stomach. He went still shortly after and made a distressed sound deep in his throat that tore her into trembling shreds. 

"Does he have any allergies? What's his medical history?" the doctor asked as they rolled Derek onto his back.

Meredith froze. "I don't... We never talked about that before."

"Right," the doctor said, frowning at her. He leaned over Derek and flashed a penlight in his eyes. Derek swallowed, following it with jerky movements. "Okay, you said he was responsive before?"

"Really confused, yes, but he was talking for a few minutes. He said my name. He said it. Mere, he said. It's short for Meredith. He was talking, he was. He calls me Mere a lot." She was freaking out. Oh, god. 

"Did he vomit in the car?"

"Y-Yes," she stuttered.

The doctor clapped his hands. "Okay, I'm going to send him up for some tests to make sure there isn't some more serious problem that we can't see. The tremors concern me, as does his continued vomiting." 

Trauma nurses swarmed. And suddenly Derek was gone. The doctor was gone. And she stood in the empty space left behind and cried.

A nurse came up to her. "Ma'am? Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?"

She couldn't answer. She was stuck, sucking in breaths, unable to do anything but try not to hyperventilate. She stood there while the room blacked out on her. Somebody guided her to a chair in the waiting room, shoved a warm cup of coffee into her hands, handed her a blanket to wrap around herself. She couldn't tell who it was. She was in a daze.

Persistent vomiting, confusion that wasn't improving... It might mean... God. It might mean he had something creating too much pressure in his head. Swelling. Bleeding. Either way, he was in trouble. People with increased intracranial pressure died a lot. They died. Derek couldn't die. Derek was... Derek was thirty-nine. He was healthy, but... Older people didn't deal with head injuries so well. He couldn't... He couldn't die. The irony of it alone was too cruel to conceive of. If Derek were working on Derek, she'd bet money that he'd live. Derek could fix practically anyone. But he wasn't. He was in the hands of some unknown doctors in this hick hospital where everyone wore mismatched scrubs. And there was nothing she could do about it.

"Ma'am? Are you Meredith? The one that came with the man with the head trauma?" a nurse said. "We need you to fill out these forms, if you can."

She stared at the clipboard in her hand and shook. She couldn't even read the words, and they expected her to fill out paperwork for him? His insurance information? His medical history? All she really knew was that at some point in his life, he'd crashed his Harley and gotten in an accident bad enough to spook him away from bikes for the rest of his life. She could barely write his name straight. She gave up after she had to look at her wallet to remember their own address.

Derek couldn't die. He couldn't...

The ER doctor who'd triaged Derek trotted up to her. "Ma'am?" he said after clearing his throat.

"Dr. Grey. Meredith. I'm a doctor," she said, her voice guttural and weeping.

"I'm Dr. Zalkind, and I kind of gathered that from your triage assessment," he replied. "Well, your... Friend... He's up getting a CT and an MRI to see if there's any other damage, and then we'll talk about medevacing him to Mount Sinai in New York, if necessary, since this hospital doesn't have the capability to deal with severe neurosurgical cases. The vomiting is what worries me. He might just be really badly bell rung from the concussion, but it could mean he's got cerebral edema or a hematoma. You know what all that is, right?"

"Yes," she replied dully. 

"Has he ever had a concussion before? That might explain his bad reaction."

"He was in a motorcycle accident when he was younger, but I don't know what happened. I know he has a scar on his forehead from it, and he won't touch a bike again."

The doctor nodded. "That might indicate a past history with concussion. Usually, the second time around is worse than the first." 

"Will he be okay? I just... He can't die. He--"

"Dr. Grey, I'm sure you know we're doing everything in our power to make sure that won't happen, but, well, you're a doctor. You know that this might be serious. Head trauma is nothing to joke about. Really, we'll have to wait and see."

"Okay," she said. She started to cry again when he left her sitting there alone. Wait and see. Wait and see usually meant make funeral arrangements. It's what doctors said when they had no fucking clue how to tell the horrific truth that they either didn't know, or the prognosis sucked so bad it was impossible to put into friendly words. God. She hated being a doctor and knowing all this stuff. 

When her phone started ringing, she was so distraught, so worried, so unhappy, that she sort of picked it up reflexively without thinking. "Hello?" she sobbed into the phone, sniffling as she wiped her face with her palms. Her skin was sticky with tears.

"Um, hello. Where's Derek?" an unfamiliar, female voice asked.

Meredith blinked and pulled the phone away to glance at it. Shit. This was Derek's phone. She hadn't even looked before she'd answered. "He's... he can't come to the phone right now," she said, her voice sounding wheezy and warbling.

"Oh," said the woman. "Well, is this Meredith?"

"Yes..." Meredith answered warily, sniffling.

"This is his sister Kathy. The family's waiting to start dinner. We were wondering if you two were held up at the airport or something. You're two hours late."

"Oh, god," Meredith said. She started to cry into the phone.

"Meredith?" Kathy said, her voice growing concerned.

"Derek..." Meredith sobbed. "Derek's..."

"Calm down, Meredith. What happened? Are you two okay?"

"Car accident. Derek's been taken up for tests..."

Kathy gasped. "What?"

"I'm in the waiting room. I don't know... God. I can't. I can't breathe..."

"What hospital? Where are you? What happened?"

"I don't know. I never..." She glanced around, looking for a sign, any sign. "Sharon Hospital," she said. 

"That's only twenty minutes from us, we'll be right there."

The line went dead, and Meredith sat staring at the phone for a long, long time. She blinked. And then she started to freak out. She would have to meet Derek's family... like this? When Derek was... Oh, god. Derek was going to die, and she wouldn't even be able to say goodbye alone. And they'd probably hate her. She sobbed again. The medical clipboard with all the blank fields she was supposed to have filled out fell to the ground with a clatter, and she rocked back and forth and back and forth, unable to do anything functional but fall apart.


	5. Chapter 5

Waiting was an instrument of torture, like a scalpel in the wrong hands, or a repeated loud noise cracking on her eardrums. The tension thrummed behind her eyes, twitched like a livewire in every muscle group. Every time the door to the waiting room would open, Meredith would shrink into her seat and look down at the floor, not wanting to see a doctor with bad news, and really not wanting to see Derek's pack of relatives. She'd wanted a chance, a real chance to be introduced, to maybe not have this be the disaster it was going to be now. No, mere disaster had long since passed. This was catastrophic.

But the waiting was the worst. She never ever could have imagined what Derek had gone through while the doctors of Seattle Grace were trying to revive her. Not until this moment. The pain of not knowing writhed like a snake in her stomach, tingeing every feeling, every perception, every light, every sound with bitter nausea. Reality was a sharp thing that cut and scratched and snarled. 

Shakily, she ran her fingers through the twists of her hair. She had to meet Derek's family, and she might never see Derek himself again. And for the first time that evening, she noticed what a victim she looked like. She had his blood all over the front of her shirt. Somehow, it'd gotten smeared there. It'd mostly dried, but some of it still glistened.

This was the first time in her life that the sight of blood made her want to vomit.

Derek wasn't supposed to die. He wasn't supposed to get hurt. She'd just freaking come back, him being the main reason, him and her friends. This was supposed to be the bright and shiny, but the only bright thing right now was his blood on her shirt.

An orderly had picked up her tipped coffee cup and put her forms on the chair beside her at some point. She couldn't remember exactly when. She huddled, shivery under the blanket, letting each passing moment jab her with its sharp edges.

Tick, tick, tick.

When they finally came, they came in waves, five women and three men in two sets of four, probably from two different cars. Nancy, the only one in the group she recognized, led the swarm. An older woman, tall, thin, wearing wire-framed glasses that set off her face with an elegant, cultured veneer, followed closely behind. Silver streaks dusted her dark, shoulder-length hair, giving her a distinguished appearance, like a lot of black-haired people tended to look when they aged. Her face... Well, Meredith could see where Derek had gotten some of his handsome features from. The eyes, the mouth... very similar. The only thing that didn't match at all was the nose. Derek's was a bit crooked. This woman's nose was thin and pointed and cute. The three younger women followed shortly behind Nancy and the mother. Derek's sisters, no doubt. They all looked like him. They all... God. The men trailing behind must be the husbands, she thought. 

She watched them blankly as they entered the waiting area and looked around. Nancy found her first, not that Meredith was hard to notice, sitting there looking like a waif, and the group tore over to her like a pack of wolves on a scent.

"Meredith?" Nancy said, sitting down next to her. The others all hovered, quiet, staring. She felt like a museum exhibit or something. Look at Derek's distraught, thin, pale, messed up, unattractive girlfriend. Here she sits to view, no charge.

"He's getting tests done," she managed to say. Her voice was low and quiet and haunted. It sounded like somebody else, some stranger speaking with her mouth. Sock-puppet Meredith, conduit to the living embodiment of grief's and panic's lovechild. "They had to... He hit his head."

"What happened?" Nancy asked. 

"A deer. We hit..." she managed to say. And then she loosed a sob, just one, before she yanked the grief back inside her and shoved it down with everything she had. She couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand that they were all watching her, all of Derek's family, watching her, expecting her to be a fountain of information, when all she really was was a lump of fear, sitting under a blanket on the chair. 

"Stu," Nancy whispered, looking up. "Why don't you see if you can find a doctor to explain what's going on?" The unspoken... the part that said, Meredith is obviously useless... Meredith filled that in for herself. 

One of the men, black-haired, tall and wiry, gangly and thin, nodded grimly and wandered off without word.

"I can't fill out the forms," Meredith said. "I don't know anything. We never... We never talked about it."

Nancy reached across her lap and picked them up. "I'll do it," she said. Meredith started to shake as she watched the blank forms get pulled across her lap. She caught the words Derek Shepherd, caught her own address. The rest of it blurred behind a glass sheet of tears that she simply wouldn't allow to fall. 

The woman Meredith thought was Derek's mother sat down in the chair where the forms had been before Nancy had taken them. "I'm Ellen Shepherd," she said. Her voice was sweet and honeyed and deep, but there was a cold edge to it, a cold edge that said anything nice this woman uttered was a fake nice. A nice that said, we're stuck in this situation, Derek is more important than you'll ever be, and I'd rather worry about that first. "You must be the girl Derek's been so smitten with."

Meredith nodded, cringing at the distaste in the woman's voice. Everyone here hated her, thought she was some slutty bitch who'd ruined Derek's other marriage, tossed Addison out to the curb. She'd been counting on support from Derek to boost her along until she could at least make some sort of non-slutty non-home-wrecker impression, but she wasn't going to get that now.

"You can call me Ellen," Ellen continued. "And these are my daughters. Kathy, Sarah, and Natalie. You know Nancy already. This is John, Kathy's husband, and Chris, Natalie's husband. Stewart, Sarah's husband, is the one who just went to find a doctor. Nancy's husband Rob is home with the children. We didn't think they should be here for this."

Meredith sniffled and nodded. She clamped down on the sobs that threatened to erupt with such a will that she started to tremble. The blanket quivered around her like a leaf getting ready to let go of a branch in a breeze, and Meredith just sat there swaying. It was disconcerting, disconcerting to be sitting there with so many people who looked like him. She was sitting, almost-crying in a blanket, in the middle of a crowd of female Dereks, and it was disconcerting. 

Nobody made any sort of move to comfort her or say anything. They all sat in silence, heads down, faces creased with worry, paired off in their own little couples except for Nancy and Ellen, who served as bookends for Meredith's misery.

Stewart came back with a doctor in tow. The trauma doctor who'd treated Derek in the ER. The one with the hick mismatched scrubs. "Hello," he said. "I'm Dr. Zalkind. You're all here with Derek Shepherd?"

A chorus of tense yeses followed.

"Well, he came in presenting with symptoms of a severe concussion as well as potential increased intracranial pressure. He's up getting a CT and an MRI right now. It will be a while before I can tell you more."

"How bad is it?" Kathy asked.

The doctor frowned and looked down to his clipboard for a moment. "We won't know until after the tests. Increased intracranial pressure can do a lot of damage, assuming he has any. He's awake, though, and he's talking a little. That's really a great sign in and of itself."

Nancy interjected, "You can't tell if there's brain damage yet?"

"No, ma'am. Not until we get a look at some CT scans and do some other tests. The symptoms he's experiencing right now may or may not have any sort of permanency. Most of his problems are easily attributable to concussion, and I'd expect those to clear up within the next seventy-two hours assuming they are indeed resultant from a concussion. The tremors are the only thing I'm seeing that might indicate otherwise. And I won't lie, those do concern me as far as determining brain damage goes."

"What if there is?" Ellen whispered. "Brain damage, I mean."

"Well, you'll be looking at a long recovery, months, years. He might never be back to his former self. It really depends on the type of damage, the location, and how severe it is. I really couldn't get more specific until we know what we're dealing with. There's so many variables, it's really just hard to say."

"He'll live, though, right?" Meredith asked. Everyone turned to her as if they'd forgotten she existed. Yes, yes, the waif in the blanket is still alive, she wanted to moan. At the same time, she was angry. Why hadn't anyone else asked this? No, they were all concerned about damage. She just wanted him to not die at this point. She would be happy with that. The rest, they could always work through. She brushed her palms against her face.

Dr. Zalkind paused, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I really can't say more than just wait and see. If it really is just a concussion, I'd say almost definitely. But I really don't want to get your hopes up right now, not until we know more."

Ellen leaned forward in her chair and nodded as she put her face down into her hands. Everyone hovered there in awkward silence as Dr. Zalkind cleared his throat in a stuttered breath that said he wanted to make an exit. Finally, when no one dismissed him, he just nodded, turned, and left. 

Meredith sat staring blankly at the floor, staring and trembling and wondering how the hell she'd gotten herself into this situation, stuck in a pack of Shepherds, wondering if Derek would live through the night, if Derek had a severe traumatic brain injury. She didn't do families. How had she ever thought she could do this?

"Has he been happy?" Ellen Shepherd asked abruptly. "Since he moved to Seattle?"

"I-" Meredith stuttered.

Ellen looked at her with pleading, worried eyes. "Please... He never calls anymore. I just... want to know how my son is."

Meredith blinked, looking at Derek's mother, pushing the shaking, trembling fear away. "Sometimes, I wonder," she began slowly. "He moved to Seattle to get away from everything, to get away from Addison and Mark. And he was happy for a while, but then they both followed him, and everything went to hell. He's been having trouble with it, having trouble moving on when it's all staring him in the face day in, day out." And then there was the whole ferry thing, which she wasn't even going to try to explain to Ellen Shepherd. Not ever.

"You think Addison made him unhappy?" Ellen asked, her tone dipping down into wary, almost hostile territory.

"Mrs. Shepherd," Meredith said with a sigh, gripping the bridge of her nose. "Do you really want me to be honest with you? Or do you want me to tell you what you want to hear?"

She didn't have the energy for this, the energy to be the perfect little Meredith for the in-laws. She didn't have the energy to fight the ghost of Addison. She didn't have the energy to stave off invasive questioning, or respond with any kind of tact. She just couldn't, not when Derek was... 

"I-" Ellen said, swallowing. "Be honest."

"I don't think Derek has been happy in a long, long time. But there are times... times when I catch him smiling, and it's just... It makes me melt to see him that way. I think he's learning how to be alive again. Slowly. Seattle is good for him. And I don't know how the hell I figure into all of it, god knows, I'm not usually a ray of sunshine. And I've done some stupid, stupid things. He's done some stupid, stupid things. But I know that right now, right this second, I'd give anything to trade places with him if it would just make him okay. It scares the hell out of me, but it's the truth. Love sucks that way sometimes. And I'm sorry for ruining your plans." 

Ellen raised an eyebrow, a curious look wandering across her face. "You say it like you wish you didn't even know him."

"Please," Meredith sighed. "My no-strings one night stand turns out to be my married boss who I can't breathe without. This whole year has been absolute hell. Getting hit by a bus and dragged for a mile would have been more fun."

Ellen's eyes narrowed. "And yet you're here."

"And yet..." Meredith heaved another sigh. "I'm here."

"He says you don't do families."

"I don't."

"And yet you're here."

"And yet I'm here." Meredith leaned back in her chair, and despite it all, she laughed. Laughed, desperate, breaking, until she was sucking down air trying to fight away the darkness clawing at her vision. The entire Shepherd family looked at her like she was a mental patient, like she was hovering in the grips of sudden dementia. Everyone except Ellen, who merely frowned, an odd look plastered across her face. In comparison to the rest of them, she seemed downright sympathetic. 

"I'm sorry," Meredith said between panting outbreaks of giggles. "I'm sorry. It's just... I pictured some stupid dinner where Derek would introduce me, and I'd get insulted for everything from the clothes I wore, to my wishy-washy career choices, to everything about me that doesn't match the feminine perfection that is Addison, and I'd lie about how great the food tasted, and I'd try to assure you that I wasn't some silly little drunk girl taking advantage of your emotionally messed-up son. I even had a list of responses prepared. About my job, and my clothes, and my not perfectness, even though Derek told me not to worry. Instead, I'm sitting in a waiting room with you all, Derek's family, telling you I'd rather be anywhere else but here, all while Derek is quite possibly dying. I'm sure I'm making a fucking great impression."

She sat in the middle of Derek's family feeling awful and alone in the sudden silence following the confession. She pulled her purse up from its crumpled pile on the floor and started fumbling with the straps. Her hands shook as she twisted the leather back and forth in her grip. The painful silence grew into something huge, torturous, throbbing. 

"I'm sorry," Meredith said, standing. "I... I... I need to make a phone call..." 

She wandered over to the other side of the waiting room without even pausing to see if Derek's family had a response. What the hell had she just done? She flipped open her phone and dialed without really thinking about where her fingers were wandering on the keys. 

"Meredith," Cristina said as she picked up. "Going crazy already? How's the McFamily?'

"Cristina... I-" Meredith swallowed against the deluge that threatened.

"Meredith?"

"I didn't know who else to call. I don't..."

"Meredith, what's wrong?"

"Derek's going to die," she blurted. And then she started to sob, and sob, and sob. Through the blurry veil of tears, she saw Derek's family hovering at the other end of the room. Ellen was watching her with a stricken expression. Meredith turned around and leaned her head against the wall, sniffling, letting everything out.

The other end of the line stayed silent, though she could hear the sounds of Cristina's light breaths against the receiver. "What?" Cristina said after the storm of tears subsided to a dull trickle.

"We hit... We had a... Crash," Meredith managed to mutter between frantic pants. 

"Don't be stupid. McDreamy is not going to die," Cristina snapped. "Stop crying, and tell me what happened."

Meredith recounted the night, slowly, in a dull, roaring haze of throaty words just on the edge of weeping. Her head ached. Her eyes watered uncontrollably. Her throat hurt. Her muscles dripped with the kind of soreness that she knew would bleach them for days. And she wanted nothing more than to collapse into a chair and sob some more. It was exhausting. She was exhausted. And she was finally in a conversation with someone sympathetic enough that she felt comfortable letting herself realize it, realize how awful she felt. Realize, and be crushed by it. 

"Meredith, he's got a severe concussion," Cristina said after Meredith had finished. "He's not going to die."

"But the tremors and the vomiting..."

"Meredith, shut up, and start thinking like the brain surgeon you want to be. If McDreamy had any sort of advanced hematoma or edema, would he have been talking to you even remotely coherently? Would he have even been awake to vomit again?"

"No..." Meredith replied weakly.

"That's right. He would have been unconscious. Or he would have blown a pupil. Or something, Meredith. Yes, he's got a few indicators, well, one indicator, but he's fine. If it really is cerebral edema or a hematoma, they caught it really early, Meredith, but from what you've said I'd bet money he's just not dealing well with the concussion. He'll be back to the regularly scheduled McDreamy in no time. And if he's not fine by tomorrow, I'll fly down there and kick his ass for screwing up your trip."

Meredith thunked her forehead against the wall. The surface was cool and nice against the fever of her grief. She laid her cheek flat against it and sighed. The back of her throat was a solid block of pain. "Cristina..."

"McDreamy won't die, Meredith. He's an ass, and I imagine he intends to stay that way. You do realize how much of a misnomer the McDreamy thing was, right? I kick myself daily for that one," Cristina grumbled.

Meredith stayed silent, trembling, just listening to Cristina trying to soothe her in her own, belligerent way. She opened her eyes and stared dully down the grain of the wall, toward one of the televisions blaring CNN to those who were interested. It was all just a painful, wheezing, wretched blur. Refocusing her eyes was so much of an effort that she just let herself hang there in the midst of the kaleidoscope. 

"He'll be fine, Meredith. Really," Cristina added after long moments where Meredith had done nothing but breathe, hitched and moaning into the receiver. 

Meredith sighed as the last bit of tears left her numb and shaky. "Thanks," she said, her voice low and throaty and hollow.

"Are you okay now?" Cristina asked.

"No," Meredith replied. "But it hurts a little less."

"Call me back and tell me about all the funny things he says while he's helpless and concussed, okay? It could be good blackmail material for later when he resumes his asshattery."

"Right," Meredith said as a chill ran through her. She hung up the phone without saying goodbye, without feeling bad for not saying it. Cristina would understand. And Cristina was right. Medically, she was right. Derek probably had a concussion. It was scary. It was bad. But it wasn't life threatening except in the weirdest of circumstances. And yet, she couldn't stop the slow burn of panic, the assumption that bad things would happen like they always did. 

She wandered back to the family and resumed her seat without word. No one bothered her. No one poked or prodded her. After several moments, she felt the blanket wrap around her again. She looked up to see Ellen pulling it over her arms. Warmth seeped through the layers where the elder woman's hands rested against Meredith's trembling shoulders. 

"It's always harder when it's unexpected," Ellen whispered. She looked away with a swallow and removed her hands.

Meredith sat there, unsure of what to say. Derek's father had died when Derek was very young. Meredith had forgotten. She pulled the blanket further over her shoulders and sat there, trembling, upset. Dr. Zalkind returned after a set of long tortured moments in which Meredith wondered if the night would ever, ever end.

"We finished up his MRI, and we've got him talking coherently, answering questions. He seems to know he's in the hospital, but he's suffering both anterograde and retrograde amnesia. He doesn't remember the crash at all, and he doesn't remember anything from the trauma center or the ambulance trip after the accident either," Dr. Zalkind announced. "That's typical in cases of head trauma, though."

Dr. Zalkind looked down at the chart he was carrying and nodded. "The CT and MRI both look promising. He has a very, very minor amount of bruising on his cerebellum and on the frontal and temporal lobes, and we won't really know for sure what kind of effect that will have until the concussion symptoms clear up, but other than that, he's gotten off very lucky. The improvement he's shown just since we took him up for testing is remarkable. I don't want to rule out anything more serious yet, and he definitely needs to stay here under observation for at least twenty-four hours, but overall things are looking very good."

Everyone started hugging and gasping and cheering at once. Everyone except Meredith, who stayed on the chair, staring at the dingy, carpeted floor. Someone had spilled something at some point, leaving a discolored stain. 

"Can we see him?" Natalie asked.

"You can visit him one at a time," Dr. Zalkind said. "Be sure to be quiet, and don't turn the lights on, since he seems to be very sensitive to it right now. If he's sleeping, don't wake him. He really needs the rest, and we'll have nurses prodding and poking a lot during the night to make sure he's still lucid."

Everyone stood in a jumble, talking, laughing. Meredith felt like an island of strange inactivity in the midst of all that happy stuff. She worried her fingers over the weave of the blanket. 

"Can I go first?" she found herself asking, her voice low and cracking. 

Everyone stopped to look at her. 

"Please. Please, the last time I saw him he was... I just need to see..." Her lower lip started to tremble. She started to twist and tear at the blanket, trying to keep it all in.

Dr. Zalkind cleared his throat. "He's in room 207."

Ellen frowned at Meredith, frowned... and then slowly, she nodded. "We'll wait," the elder woman said, a strange, strange tone intervening in her voice. "I-- We'll wait."

Meredith sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose with shaking, trembling fingers. "Thank. Thank you."

She took off at a run, not sure if she was running toward something, or running away.


	6. Chapter 6

Derek lay with his head and torso partially elevated, swathed in blankets, eyes shut, looking indescribably peaceful. Meredith pulled up a chair, careful to drag it gently across the tiles so that it didn't make too much noise. She sat next to him, staring.

A small patch of his hair had been shaved away, and the long gash that ran along his hairline had been cleaned and sutured. His head tilted to the side toward his left shoulder, like he'd been awake and looking toward the door, only to drift off accidentally. A saline drip pumped fluids quietly into a catheter taped against his wrist. His other wrist was wrapped in a thin nametag that read "Derek Shepherd" in new courier type. A heart monitor on the other side of the bed announced the steady, solid progress of his heartbeat.

Meredith sat there, happy to just watch him breathe. Was this how he'd felt when she'd been in the hospital? He'd spent the night spooned up to her, looking pensive and distraught. She'd fallen asleep to his breaths on the back of her neck, to the soothing motions of his hands as he'd stroked her.

She longed to climb into bed with him right then, just lie down along the length of him and embrace him, run her hands along his chest to assure herself that he was fine. But she didn't want to wake him up, and people with head injuries were often confused or agitated. Breaching the personal space barrier like that before she had a good idea of his state of mind, well, that might end up being bad, might make things worse.

Instead, Meredith contented herself to watch his chest rise and fall, rise and fall. The room was dark, but the windows on the side wall let light in from the hallway, where nurses and doctors and night staff wandered by with relative infrequency. She could make out his outline, could see everything clearly despite the dimness. He had one of those flimsy hospital gowns on. It made him look sick and helpless. She suddenly realized she had no idea where the car had been towed to, the car that had their luggage in it. So, he would be stuck with the gown for now. God, she couldn't even offer him the comfort of his own clothes, his own flannel pants and a lived in t-shirt.

A nurse trotted in after about twenty minutes. "Mr. Shepherd?" she said loudly as she walked over to him. "Time to wake up now." The nurse turned to Meredith and smiled. "You can let him go back to sleep after this. We just need to make sure we can rouse him."

Meredith nodded as Derek blinked and sighed. He moved sluggishly as he pulled his hands up to his face and scrubbed at the skin. The nurse leaned over him, quickly checking his vitals, which he allowed without comment or issue.

"Mr. Shepherd," the nurse asked, "Can you tell me where you are?"

Derek swallowed, blinking at her, staring in the nurse's direction, but not quite at the nurse. "Hospital," he said. His voice came out raspy and worn and slurred just enough to sound strange.

"Very good. Do you know what happened?" the nurse prodded.

"Mmm," Derek moaned. After several false starts, he managed to say, "Car crash, I think…" He leaned back against the pillows and sighed, his face creased with discomfort.

"Yes. You're at Sharon Hospital," the nurse clarified. "You have a bad concussion, and you were up having an MRI just a little while ago. Do you remember that?"

Derek nodded slowly, making several repeated swallowing motions, as if he were trying to clear his throat to speak, but not actually coming up with any words. The nurse put a glass of water and two pills on his tray table, probably painkillers, though Meredith didn't really get a good look. Derek reached out, but either his depth perception was messed up, or everything was just blurry, and he missed as he pawed with shaky hands at the place where the nurse had placed the pills. The nurse guided him to it, and he scooped them up and downed them without too much more difficulty.

His hand had started to shake as he wiped at his face again. The nurse took a penlight and flashed it at him, asking him to follow the light. He did. She smiled, satisfied, and left them, saying she'd be back in another hour or so.

He sighed, and his eyelids started to droop, but then he turned toward her and froze, as if he was noticing her sitting there for the first time. He swallowed, swallowed, swallowed, and made a noise that might have been a word, had he opened his mouth to speak it. His eyes wandered across her face, as though he were trying to focus on her, but couldn't quite manage it.

"Hey," she said, smiling as brightly as she could manage despite how upset she felt. She was unused to doing this. The sick thing. The part of a relationship where you had to be supportive and brave and comforting. Derek was usually so healthy. He hadn't even had a cold since she'd known him. And he rarely got into a funk, mood-wise, at least not like she tended to do. It was always him asking her if she was okay, if she needed anything. Now it was her turn to do that for him, and it just felt, well, it felt weird, and heart wrenching, and strange.

She reached out, put her hand over his own, and squeezed it. "You look so much better." She almost wanted to kick herself for sounding so lame, but the whole situation just seemed odd. Derek continued to watch her, his expression blank. When she moved her fingers across his own, his gaze drifted down in a sluggish readjustment.

He stared down at her hand, still cupped over his. She took up his palm in a two-handed grasp and started to massage the joints. He watched, silent, with a curious expression on his face. Far from agitated, his concussion made him seem downright docile, she thought. She tried not to wonder why he hadn't said anything yet when she knew very well that he could speak, at least a little.

"I'm so glad you're okay," she said, suddenly feeling the need to fill the awkward, scary silence. The emotions shook loose from her like apples from a tree in a gale. She started to sniffle. "Derek, I was so worried. I thought… You were… Well, if this is anything like how you felt when I-- I'm so sorry." The tears heaved into a torrent, and she found herself weeping at him as the stress began to overwhelm her. "I love you, I love you, I love you," she moaned. "I'm so glad you're okay."

He pulled his hand away as though she'd scalded him. His breaths, which had been relaxed before, kicked up into a higher, gasping gear. And his eyes widened. "Don't touch me," he snapped, his words loose, the sounds not entirely grouped together in the correct way, enough that were he speaking that way on a regular day, she would have thought he was tipsy.

She froze at his harsh, vehement tone, pausing in mid sob. She leaned back in the chair. "What?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

He started to twitch and breathe and show all the signs of a minor panic attack. "Derek?" she asked. Meredith frowned and hit the call button when he didn't reply. His eyes flared wide, showing the whites all around the irises. The nurse came running in a few moments later. Meredith pointed at Derek, who gasped and heaved with upset. His eyes watered and streaked his cheeks with tears.

"I don't know what happened!" she said as the nurse rushed over.

"Mr. Shepherd! Mr. Shepherd, can you calm down for me? You're at Sharon hospital. You were in a very bad car accident, but you're doing great. Can you look at me?" the nurse prodded.

"What… What…" Derek said between pants. His eyes leaked. He brought a shaking hand up to grip the bridge of his nose like he was trying to stave off a tension headache.

"You're okay, Derek. You're fine," Meredith said as the nurse checked him over. He just kept staring at her over the nurse, staring at her with confused, tearing eyes. Maybe he was remembering the accident? She couldn't tell, couldn't even begin to guess at what had upset him. "Your family is all here, Derek," she said, trying to reassure him, give him some comfort. "Do you want to see your sisters? Your mom?"

He sniffled. "Where's Addi? Where…" he asked.

Meredith swallowed. Confused. He was just confused. "Addison is in Seattle, Derek…" she said.

"Se…" He made a choking noise. "Seattle?" The answer only seemed to upset him more. "What? Wh… Did she… Does she have a medical conference there?"

"What? No, Derek. She works there," Meredith said, a pit of dread forming in a slow, twining curl in her stomach. This was wrong. This was all wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

The nurse frowned. "I'm going to get his doctor. Try and keep him calm."

Derek swallowed, staring off into his own world, sputtering nonsensical, slurred questions that began with the sound of the first word, only to fall of into choking gasps. Meredith gripped his hand again. "Derek. Derek, look at me. Breathe. You're fine," she said.

He stared at her for all of two seconds before he ripped his hand away from her. "Are you…" he said, his voice searching, his unfocused gaze full of pleading, desperate fear. "Are you a nurse? I don't…"

"What?" she asked. She felt the floor dropping out from under her, and she collapsed back onto her chair and stared at him, utterly helpless to do anything other than watch him panic. Her chest wrenched at the sight of him, afraid, not knowing what was going on. She'd seen this problem before countless times in victims with head wounds, but nothing would have ever prepared her for that, to see the man she loved looking back at her with absolute, terrifying lack of recognition.

Dr. Zalkind came rushing into the room, followed by the nurse that had left to fetch him. "What's the problem?"

"Why is Addison in Seattle? What… Wh…" Derek said, panting, until the words fell away into a moan. He blinked at them, his whole face flushed, and everything crumpled.

Dr. Zalkind turned to Meredith. "Who is Addison?"

"His ex-wife. They've been divorced for months," she said in a small, warbly voice. "I don't think he remembers."

"What?" Derek said. "When did… What? Wh--" His heart monitor started to whine as his heart rate skyrocketed. He panted so hard it sounded like he was choking on the air he managed to suck down.

"Mr. Shepherd, you need to calm down. You're showing signs of retrograde amnesia that's a little worse than we originally thought. But it's normal for this kind of head injury. It should clear up. Can you breathe for me? Can you calm down?"

Meredith watched in silence as Dr. Zalkind frowned at Derek and whispered to the nurse, "Jess, I think we need to sedate him. Get some diazepam, push five milligrams."

The nurse went to work, and soon Derek stopped sputtering, stopped pelting them with breathless questions. He sank back onto the pillows with a sigh and stared blankly as the shaking dulled to a faint tremor, and then died away completely. "Mr. Shepherd, can you hear me?" Dr. Zalkind prodded.

Derek sighed and nodded, staring ahead like some broken toy. Meredith felt bitter, racking sobs clogging up her throat, but she forced them to stay there, lumping up, not coming out. Derek hated being drunk and out of control of himself. This would be so much worse for him. She wanted to rush the bed, rush him and hug him and tell him everything would be fine. Except he had no idea who the hell she was. She wasn't even that sexy girl who'd caught his eye in the bar anymore. She was a haggard, crying, shocked little drip of skin and bones that probably looked very far from eye-catching. Well, the blood all over her shirt was probably eye-catching, but… not the right kind. She had nothing to work with. She couldn't rely on some first spark to make him at least open-minded to her. Not when he was this disoriented, this confused. Not when she looked like crap. Not when she felt like crap.

"Okay," Dr. Zalkind said, apparently satisfied that Derek had settled down. "You need to get some rest. Try not to worry too much yet. This type of thing usually clears up within the first twenty-four hours or so. If it doesn't, then we'll get concerned."

Dr. Zalkind turned to Meredith. "The best thing for him right now is to relax and not worry. This type of thing is normal so far. Overall, he seems to be recovering very well. We'll keep monitoring him overnight."

"Okay," Meredith said with a sigh that melted into a sob. She had a long string of them. Sobs. But she'd crunched them up in her throat in a long traffic jam of crying that she hadn't yet given a green light for. That would be for later.

The doctor and the nurse left, and she stayed back by the wall, her fists clenched at her mouth, just staring at him, not knowing what to do. Should she leave? Should she stay? Was she supposed to answer questions, or let him remember on his own? She grasped at straws, trying to remember how to deal with people who had amnesia, but she came up blank. Stress and surprise and fear had taken her senses and run off with them, laughing and chortling while she floundered behind them, a wreck.

He turned to face her after a few moments. He swallowed, and gazed at her with a dull sort of calm, no doubt forced on him by the blanket of drugs now clouding his mind. She wondered if he was worried, worried behind all the relaxants, pounding on a cage to get out, or if he was genuinely loose and not anxious.

"Are we?" he stuttered. "Are we… Are you?" He seemed unable to complete a thought, or at least connect the thoughts with his mouth. He brought his hands up to his tray table and rested them there, but they seemed more like dead appendages he was dragging along with his arms, rather than hands he was moving deliberately. "Who?" he continued. He frowned at her, squinting, as if he couldn't see her clearly but desperately wanted to.

"Meredith," she said. "My name is Meredith. We're… sort of somewhere close to married, but not engaged. If that makes sense. You should rest, Derek."

"Meredith," he said, sampling the word with a curious look on his face, ignoring the rest of her speech. She wanted to cry when she heard it, her name, coming from his lips with absolutely no inflection, none of the adoration he usually slathered all across the syllables, no look on his face like he'd placed her on a pedestal and was awed and amazed that she would even be with him. No, her name sounded strange, now. Strange, and dead. He swallowed. Swallowed and moaned before managing a slurred, "Addison?"

"She cheated on you, Derek. You tried to fix things, well, sort of… It didn't work out so well."

He blinked and closed his eyes. "I don't remember."

"I know, Derek. It's okay. Do you want to see your family?" she asked, but he didn't answer. His head dipped to the side, his hands slid off the tray table, and soon his breaths came in even, soothing rasps. She sat with him for a few minutes, sat watching him breathe. He was okay. He would be all right. Retrograde amnesia usually faded quickly, and really, things could have been so, so much worse. Perhaps next time the nurse came to wake him, he would remember her.

A tear slipped down her cheek and she waited with him while he slept. But when the nurse came in to wake him up an hour later in a vague repeat of before, he still didn't know anything. And the hour after that, again the same. He remembered her name, knew he was supposed to know her, and the rest of the information she'd given him just before he'd fallen asleep, but that was it. He wasn't panicking at the sight of her anymore, but neither was he at all comfortable with it, either.

After three hours of sitting with him, exhaustion clung to her like a warm blanket, dragging her down into a droopy, tired, barely there state. She ached everywhere. Apparently the whiplash was finally starting to kick in. She sighed, suddenly finding her chair agonizing to sit in. Her back hurt. Her head swam. Derek was asleep again. And his poor family was all probably still crowded in the waiting room, waiting for their own time with him, waiting for word from her. She'd been selfish, languishing this long, and they'd been incredibly polite to leave her to it. She made a woozy, tired mental note to thank them, thank them for letting her stay there and take their brother/son/brother-in-law away from them for so long, for letting her stay there and do the sick thing that she had no idea how to do properly.

Derek lay there in the darkness, breathing softly. She couldn't resist rubbing her hand across his cheek before she left. It was rough with the usual day's end stubble, but she found it comforting all the same. He slept right through the caress, probably a product of the drugs, the exhaustion, and the concussion all combined. Normally, he would have snapped awake.

But he was okay, she told herself. He would be okay. He didn't appear to have any lasting brain damage, not yet anyway, although something could always crop up. And seeing somebody whose face he actually knew might be comforting to him. She went to greet his family, her muscles locked into a state of bitter tension.

All of them were still there. All of them, despite how early in the morning it was now. They were awake and smiling and chatting like nothing was wrong, although she could sense, just underneath all the joviality, there was a layer of worry. They quieted when she approached.

"He's doing better," she said, her voice dull and creaky and exhausted.

"You look wiped out," one of Derek's sisters who wasn't Nancy said. Meredith tried to pull apart her memory for a name, but she just couldn't do it.

"I'm fine," she said. "I need to find out where they towed the car to. It has our luggage. And—" She gasped as the world started to tilt.

Somebody caught her. "We'll take care of that. John, why don't you take her to the house so she can sleep?"

One of Derek's brothers-in-law scooped her up like she was nothing. She vaguely remembered being taken out into the cold and put in the seat of a car. She vaguely remembered being carried into a dark, clean bedroom. After that, she didn't remember a thing.

* * *

**_Author's Notes: Okay, guys. Hang in there! _ ** **_I know... I know... You're yelling. You're screaming. You're thinking, I can't believe she actually went there... I warned everyone up front that this story was based off a whole host of ridiculous cliches, and so far, I've delivered. Meredith meets the family despite immense opposition. There's a car crash. Derek has amnesia. I mean, good lord, right? But I hope I haven't scared anyone away. That was it. The biggie. The amnesia is my embarrassing redheaded stepchild that I almost didn't want to write about because I was afraid of the reaction I'd get. But my goal here is to create an intelligent, fresh look at an old shoe. I have no more desire to write banality than you do to read it. And an intelligent look does not equal using amnesia as a time-wasting roadblock. I promise. I hope you have faith, and continue to enjoy the story. Thanks!_**


	7. Chapter 7

When the nurse jarred him awake for what seemed like the forty-seventh time, he blinked and sighed and groaned. It was getting harder and harder to wake up, and it had nothing to do with the concussion, and everything to do with the exhaustion wrought by almost no real sleep at all. The hospital room came muzzily into focus. The shades were drawn, barring out the light and leaving him in a confused, time-blind state. For once, no one from his family was in the room with him. A sticky note sat on his tray table with loopy scribbles on it, but it seemed so far away... It probably explained why no one was there. He left it there to sit.

"What time?" he muttered gruffly, trying to force the siren song of dreaming away. Everything slogged around behind his eyes in a bitter, slow march. Thoughts seemed to come to him sluggishly. And functional movement took real focus. 

"It's 10AM," the nurse replied as she checked his pulse and did a quick test of his eye movement with a penlight. She departed, leaving him staring dully ahead at the wall, which blurred as he let himself lose focus. Sleep already had its claws sunk deep within him, and his eyelids started to drift shut without much effort.

A doctor he didn't recognize walked in. "Good morning," the man said with a smile, and Derek worked to refocus. If only they would leave him alone to sleep, just for a few hours... 

The doctor had a thick wash of shaggy blonde hair and a rosy cast that made him seem boyish, at least ten years younger than he probably actually was. He walked up to Derek's bed and pulled the chart from the holder stuck on the fake-wood paneling at the foot of it. "I'm Dr. Masden," he said. "I'll be supervising your case today since Dr. Zalkind's shift ended earlier."

"Okay," Derek replied, his voice thick and low with the ache of exhaustion. The tired thrum behind his eyes wouldn't go away, and he found himself wishing Dr. Masden would just get the hell out.

Dr. Masden scanned Derek's chart, frowning here, nodding there. "So, how are you feeling today? Any headache or dizziness?"

For a moment, Derek just stared, blank and speechless, and then finally after a few seconds, words came to him in slow succession. "No headache right now," he said. "I get dizzy if I try to move too much. Mostly, I'm just tired." 

"Well, that's to be expected. Can you hold out your hand for me?"

No, he wanted to say. He blinked and forced his muscles to start cooperating. Slowly, he raised his hand and stared at it. The little label with his name and allergy status itched against his skin. At least they'd removed the heart monitor and the IV line earlier in the morning after the 'critical' period had passed. Both of those had really been starting to irritate him.

"Make a fist?"

He did. 

"Extend again?"

His hand didn't start to shake until about a minute had passed. Derek dropped his hand back to his lap and stared at it while Dr. Masden wrote notes on his chart. It was probably... Derek blinked. For a minute, he couldn't think of it. Contusions. Yeah. He closed his eyes. Contusions would resolve on their own and the symptoms would fade... Eventually. Until then, he probably wasn't going to be doing any surgeries... He started to drift.

"Well, that's a vast improvement," Dr. Masden said, forcing Derek to slog once again back to wakefulness. "I imagine that will clear up as the bruising heals. Any blurred vision still?"

"No," Derek said.

"Can you read this?" Dr. Masden asked as he handed Derek a small pamphlet on some new medical treatment for sinus allergies.

Derek read from it, wincing at the effort it took just to concentrate on it. But it wasn't blurred. After a sentence or two, he paused, his place wandered, and he had to catch it again. 

"Are you having trouble seeing the words, or is it more just the act of reading?" Dr. Masden prodded when Derek stuttered slowly into the third sentence.

"The latter..." Derek said.

"Well, it hasn't even been sixteen hours yet since you were brought in, and I'm guessing you're getting pretty exhausted with all the prodding. You'll probably be feeling really foggy for at least another day or two, given the severity of the concussion you received," Dr. Masden said. "I think we can release you tonight if this trend of improvement continues, provided you have somebody to watch you at home. I'd like to get a follow-up MRI and CT later in the afternoon, but so far I'm pleased with your progress."

Derek nodded, swallowing against the sudden lump that formed in his throat. Home would be good. Home away from all the poking, in a dark, clean bed where he could sleep without being constantly observed. He sniffed, trying to hold back his misery as the doctor launched into a long spiel that left him dizzy in the roar of words.

"For the next few months to a year, there's a good chance you'll continue to experience some symptoms of your concussion, along with additional problems. Headaches, nausea, fatigue, dizziness, bouts of blurred vision, decreased libido... You might feel a little 'slow', might find yourself misplacing things more often than you used to. There's also the potential for emotional problems such as anxiety, restlessness, depression, or aggression, among others. You might not have any of those symptoms, or you might run the gamut. Just keep in mind that it's all perfectly normal, particularly after such a severe concussion, and that it should resolve on its own eventually. I'm going to give you a pamphlet on post concussion syndrome to take home with you for reference. I definitely advise you to seek a follow-up appointment with a neurological specialist within a week or two, just to make sure nothing unexpected has cropped up."

Derek blinked against the onslaught. He knew all this stuff. He did. He'd recited the same thing to any number of patients. It still felt damning to hear from another individual, though. 

"The memory loss..." Dr. Masden continued. "That's another animal. Since it's caused by physical trauma and not psychological, there's really no treatment other than to wait and see. I've never seen a case where nothing at all came back, though it's possible you'll always have some gaps. Your older memories will probably be the first to return. You should start noticing some improvement soon."

Again, all stuff Derek knew already. And yet...

"Can I see my films from last night?" Derek asked.

"Pardon?"

"My films."

"Why?"

"I'm a neurosurgeon... I'd like to look at them."

"You are? I-- Well, I guess you know most of this stuff by rote already then. You could have stopped me earlier, you know," Dr. Masden said with a grin as he handed the films over.

"Turn the lights on?" Derek asked.

Dr. Masden walked over and flipped the lights on. Derek winced as the sudden illumination speared him. He felt tears forming, and he reflexively brought his hands over his eyes as he groaned. After a few moments, he forced his eyes open and shakily held the first film up. He stared for a long moment. At first, it flat out didn't make sense to him, and he swam through molasses trying to call up the skills to read it. Slowly, the image resolved, and he saw his brain, saw the portions of it that were lightly contused. Nothing else seemed abnormal. He thought about it until his head started to hurt a little, but he re-concluded that, no, nothing seemed abnormal. He brought the next film up. He stared as the mess came into focus and found the same contusions. Blinking, he tried to think deeper. Was there something he was missing? He just didn't know for sure. Nothing came to him. Normally, it should have been a snap. But he felt like he was lagging a few frames behind the world at large. Finally, he gave up and lowered the films.

Nothing. He'd been hoping there would be something obvious, something simple that was causing his memory loss. Something that the doctors here had missed because they just weren't trained to catch it. By their own admission, they didn't have a neurology department, and their doctors were only trained with the basics required to treat most mild traumas. The bruising was slight, just as they had said. The spots on his temporal lobes were in the right location to be messing around with his memory. But that sort of thing wasn't something that could just be fixed under the knife. It would have to resolve on its own, assuming it ever resolved at all. If the slam to his brain had been hard enough, it was possible, though extremely unlikely, that stuff just simply wouldn't come back to him.

That scared him more than a little. He wasn't even sure how much was missing yet.

He sighed and handed the films back to Dr. Masden. "You agree with my assessment?" Dr. Masden asked.

Derek nodded, sweeping his hands across his face in a tired gesture. "Yeah," he replied.

"Okay. We'll get new films later today and see if there's improvement or extra bleeding that could be causing issues. I'll be back later to check in," Dr. Masden said, and then he parted after switching off the light, plunging Derek into comfortable darkness again.

Derek sighed. His eyes slipped shut, and he drifted off, but in what seemed like less than a minute, a nurse was yelling at him to wake up again. He moaned and opened his eyes. "Look, I'm fine. Let me sleep," he snapped.

The nurse frowned. "We've been instructed to wake you every hour for the first twenty-four hours. I know you're probably getting cranky, but it's policy."

He sighed as the nurse once again checked his pulse, his eye movement, and then made sure that he still remembered he was Derek and that he was in a damned hospital. Really, it was obvious just from the bed. He ran his hands through his hair, but quickly drew them back into his lap when they started to shake violently. 

"Where's my wallet?" he asked abruptly as he gave up on the notion of ever sleeping again.

The nurse looked at him oddly. "Your personal belongings should be in the drawer here. Let's see..." She moved to the desk and routed through the drawer. "Here we go," she said, pulling out a thin, black billfold.

"Thanks," he said, taking it from her with a trembling grasp.

After the nurse had left him, he opened it. His face stared back at him, slightly rougher, slightly more aged than he remembered, but only slightly. The address on the license said 613 Harper Lane. Seattle. He sighed in frustration. He didn't even know what Seattle looked like anymore, and supposedly, he lived there. Lived there with some woman he didn't know.

He closed his eyes and sighed. Addison. The last clear memory he had of her was her smiling at him in a distant, cold sort of way as he took another emergency call into the hospital, early, early in the morning. "See you at work," she'd whispered despondently as he'd thrown on some slacks and a shirt and dashed out. All he'd said was goodbye. He'd meant to apologize. But... Had he? Everything sort of faded after that. And memories were confusing to begin with. It wasn't like his whole life was a chronology in his head. Was that really the last thing he remembered, or was it just the last thing he could think of right that second?

He blinked against the memory of Addison, hooded with sleep, dejected at his departure. Sighing, he flipped further through the wallet, hissing in frustration when his hands started to shake badly enough that turning the pages was a war. It seemed like the shaking got worse the more he stressed. He paused for a minute, trying to relax, but that only made the exhaustion slip in again, and so he went back to work, routing through his life. He flipped through credit cards he didn't recognize, followed by an insurance card that detailed Seattle Grace's plan. He briefly paused to smile over the fact that he'd somehow become head of the neurosurgery department at Seattle Grace. That was a big step up from his private practice in New York, certainly much more prestigious. He fumbled past a ticket stub from his flight, supposedly yesterday, though he remembered none of it. 

He paused on the last plastic sleeve. There was a small photograph tucked in it, one taken by one of those corny photo booth things often found at carnivals or in superstores. His older self and Meredith sat intertwined, looking at each other with euphoric grins plastered across their faces. His arm was wrapped possessively over her shoulder. And he looked so... blissful. 

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like that. 

Meredith, she'd said. It was a pretty name, and she had a pretty face. He hadn't really gotten a very good look at her the night before. His vision had still been spotty, and she'd been haggard with upset. Upset for him. It felt odd, knowing his injury had caused another person to become so distraught, another person he essentially didn't know anymore.

"Hey, you're awake!" Kathy said as she wandered into the room with a smile. "How are you feeling?"

Derek looked up sluggishly as he closed the billfold and put it on the stand beside the bed. A tall, thin, black-haired, blue-eyed blur slowly shimmered into a clear image of his youngest sister as his brain registered the change in view. "I've been better," he said.

"Meredith is at the house getting some sleep if you didn't know," Kathy said. "Poor thing. She was really shaken up. Rob is in the process of tracking down where the car got towed. Mom and everyone else are out getting breakfast. Oh, and I brought you a pair of John's pajamas. You're about the same size, though he has some extra spare tires that you haven't accumulated, what with your health kick that never dies."

He blinked at the deluge of words coming from his sister's lips. It took him a moment to catch up with it all. He sighed. "Oh," he replied lamely as she laid some red-checkered flannel pants at the foot of the bed. He leaned forward to grab them, but he regretted it in seconds as things started to swim in front of his eyes like a melting painting. He groaned and shut his eyes, trying to stop the spinning.

"You okay?" Kathy asked from far, far away.

"Dizzy," he muttered, swallowing against the painful lump forming in the back of his throat. The swirling feeling faded back into the roar with all the speed of a turtle as he held himself still, but it did at least recede. With every heartbeat, the turntable the room was on decelerated, until it hovered at a slow, moping crawl, refusing to go away completely.

He heard her move closer. She rubbed his shoulder. "Let me help you, Der," she said.

He opened his eyes and watched her motioning for him to slide off the bed. It seemed like the equivalent of a descent into the Grand Canyon. Possible, but immeasurably difficult. He pushed the sheets back and inched to the side of the bed. He swung his legs over, but he had to stop, stop and breathe. When he felt comfortable again, he stood up, only to moan in frustration. "I can't," he said, panting with misery as his head begged him to sit back down.

"It's okay. Lean on me," Kathy said as she shuffled around. She leaned down and he put his shaky hands on her shoulders, standing helplessly as she maneuvered down by his feet, pajama pants in tow.

"Left foot," she said.

It took him a moment, but he managed to lift his leg up off the floor enough for her to get the pajama leg around his ankle. He wished it would just end, just end so he could sink back onto the bed. He tried to save her from his weight, but trying versus actively connecting the thought with his muscles were vastly different things, the latter resulting in bitter failure, and he stayed resting on her, grip growing tighter and tighter as the world started to grow dim on him.

"Right foot," she commanded through the haze.

He complied somehow, a small groan pealing out of his throat as another sheet of dizziness wrapped around him in a suffocating veil. "I have to sit, Kathy," he gasped. "I-"

"Almost done," she said. She pulled up the pants. They slid up his skin until they loosely gripped his waist. He swayed, desperate, just waiting, waiting for her to say--

"Okay, sit."

He collapsed with a miserable sob. She fingered the ties on his gown and pulled them loose. He felt cool air slither against his skin as she removed the gown. He sucked in a breath.

"Arms," she said.

He raised his arms in front of him, and he was vaguely aware of the cool, clean shirt sliding over his head. It felt so much better than the flimsy gown. So much better, more secure... and yet, he was so miserable by the time Kathy was through, he couldn't really enjoy it. He collapsed back against the pillows, shaking, swallowing back the waves of vertigo.

He closed his eyes and panted, staying very, very still.

"Do you want me to get the doctor?" Kathy asked. 

"No," he whispered as everything slowly settled again. "This is normal."

When he opened his eyes, Kathy was sitting on a chair next to his bed, staring at him with a frown. "You really did a number on yourself, Der," she whispered.

He gripped the bridge of his nose and sighed as the back of his throat started to throb again. He swallowed. Felt his eyes watering. He blinked, blinked, blinked again, trying to make it all go away. "What's she like?" he asked.

"Who, Meredith?"

"Yeah."

Kathy shrugged. "I barely know her. This is the first time you've brought her out here."

"You mean this trip was to introduce her?" he asked, incredulous. A sliver of guilt slipped under his skin and twisted. He'd come to introduce this woman to his family, and now he only knew her name because she'd told him. She must feel so awful... 

"Yeah," Kathy replied.

"I don't remember any of it, Kath... Please tell me what she's like... I need... I don't... Something..." His hands and other muscles started to tremble again. He pulled his arms across his chest, folding his hands up underneath his armpits, but it did nothing to hide the tremors as they shifted into his forearms and made his whole torso shake as the kinetic energy transferred around. Kathy narrowed her eyes at him, but she didn't comment.

"I'm sure she's wonderful," she replied.

"Then why do I get the feeling everyone hates her?" he asked. "I asked Mom and Nance earlier after she left, and all I got were noncommittal shrugs."

"You know they're the watchdogs, Der. You've been... kind of weird lately," Kathy said, swallowing. "They're just worried."

"Weird?"

"You just took off, Derek," she explained. "We didn't even know you'd moved until Addison finally told us when we tried to invite you two for brunch."

"I don't... It's all... I don't remember anything past..." he stuttered. "I'm not even really sure how much I'm missing..."

"Stop trying to force it. You're just upsetting yourself."

"Don't analyze me, Kath," he snapped.

"Well, don't toss me bait. You should rest, Der. You need it right now. And, hey. If you love her even half as much as she obviously loves you, well... You have nothing to worry about, because that's the kind of feeling that sort of forces things to work out."

He sighed and leaned back against the pillows. Somehow, that didn't comfort him, it just added indescribable pressure. What if this time around he felt differently? Then he'd be hurting an innocent woman. And then... Addison. Should he call her? He shouldn't... Not when they were obviously split up. But... He swallowed. His marriage was just gone. Poof. And he didn't remember a thing, not even the reason it had blown up. He'd been distant lately, yes... but work had been so crazy... and...

She'd cheated on him, Meredith had said. But Addison... Cheat? The thought made him feel sick and wasted and tired. He never would have imagined... He wondered how he'd found out. A nudge by a friend to open his eyes? Perhaps Mark had clued him in. Mark almost spent more time with Addison than he did. Or had he walked in on Addison and her new boyfriend in the act... His insides started to crawl.

"Did she really cheat on me?" Derek asked.

"By her own admission, yes," Kathy replied, deftly following his subject change. 

He swallowed back nausea at thinking about it. He had to stop. Stop worrying about all this. There was an extremely good chance that this would all just go away soon, and his memories would pop back one by one. Why worry about what he couldn't remember, when it would surely just come back? He'd never seen retrograde amnesia this severe remain in somebody who wasn't already wall paste. 

So, it would come back. And he would be in love again like he was supposed to be, and he wouldn't feel sick that Addison had cheated on him and his marriage had gone nuclear. 

"Derek, stop worrying about it and sleep," Kathy prodded. It was as if she could read his mind.

He breathed against the thrum of worry and ache and exhaustion loitering in his skull, and he closed his eyes. "You try sleeping when they poke you every five minutes to make sure you can still spell your name," he grumbled. Fuzz started to grip the corners of his thoughts. Kathy chuckled softly somewhere in the background, background that, inch by sluggish inch, crept far away into the darkness. Suddenly he was falling, falling into nothingness, and he was gone.

It seemed like only a few moments had passed before the nurse yanked him back from sleep with a firm voice and that wretched penlight, starting the whole cycle again. Kathy sat with him through what had become the most annoying checkup routine ever. The nurse departed, and Derek couldn't stop the tears of frustration.

"I just want to sleep," he said, blinking away the misery. 

"I know," Kathy replied.

His eyes drifted shut, and he was out again for a blessed fifty-nine minutes.


	8. Chapter 8

Meredith woke to the thunder of feet tearing down the hall. She cracked one eye open to peer muzzily across the flat plane of a king-sized bed. She twitched and groaned, and then the other eye came open. For a brief, panicked moment, she forgot where she was, and she launched off the mattress in shock. Reality settled back in a moment after, and her heartbeat calmed.

The room had a homey, lived-in feel to it. Ruffled, white-lace curtains were tied back with bows at the windows, which were obstructed by pale blue Venetian blinds. A thin quilt covered the bed, and framed family photographs dotted every wall. She recognized Derek in some of them, much, much younger. He made a cute kid.

She found her suitcase propped up against the wall under one of the windowsills. The room was large enough that it had two windows along the side. There was a sticky note attached to her bag that gave her the number of the rental agency, which she supposed she should call to start going over the insurance stuff. Later, she decided, when she thought about the headache that would entail.

She rummaged through her luggage and pulled out a fresh t-shirt to replace her soiled one. She raised the blinds, only to be greeted by quickly waning daylight. The small analog clock on the nightstand said it was 5:30 PM, but it couldn't be that late. Could it? Had she really been out that long? Her muscles ached, and a light headache persisted, but she felt so, so much better than she had the night before.

The sound of several small bodies thudding down the hall again was followed by a deep male voice shouting, "I told you not to run in the house!" But it was an amused sort of scolding, not trembling with anger or vitriol.

Meredith wandered out into the hallway. Three little bodies skidded to a stop and gasped. "Hello," she said. Three sets of wide eyes stared back.

"Daddy told us not to wake you," said the small, brown-haired girl. She couldn't have been more than five.

"Shut up, Mary," hissed a taller, similar looking boy, probably eight. "You'll get us into trouble."

"I will not! Meredith likes us!" replied Mary.

The third one, a short, doe-eyed, black-haired girl, a spitting image of Ellen, feature-wise, just stood there, sucking her thumb.

Meredith blinked at the trio. "I won't tell," she said. "And you didn't wake me," she lied. The trio giggled and thumped off.

She wandered downstairs to find a tall, muscular, brown-haired man in the kitchen supervising a small army of kids at the kitchen table as they played with paper and glue and noodles in a whirlwind of disaster. There were more noodles stuck to kids than there were noodles stuck to paper.

Thunder poured down through the ceiling. "Stop running!" the man shouted, cupping his hands to his mouth.

He turned when he noticed her. His eyes narrowed as he took in her disheveled appearance, but he gave her a thin smile. "Hello, I'm Rob," he said, his tone scraping up against cautious tolerance. He brushed off his palms on his stained jeans and reached out to shake her hand.

His grasp was warm, and firm, but she didn't sense a whole lot of friendliness there. "Meredith," she replied. "Nancy's husband, right?"

"Yeah. She's told me a lot about you," Rob said, noncommittal.

At least that explained the attitude, Meredith thought with a sigh. "Is Derek doing okay?" she asked.

Rob nodded. "They're bringing him home in about two hours or so. Doctors are letting him go early since he has supervision, and he's supposedly improved so much."

"Really?" she asked with a frown. She would have expected them to keep Derek until the next morning at the very least. Two hours would mark a point barely past twenty-four hours since he'd been wheeled into the trauma ward. At Seattle Grace it was standard to keep people with concussions as bad as Derek's for at least forty-eight hours. And Derek had the contusions in addition to the concussion… She frowned.

Rob nodded again. "Yeah. Julie, stop that," he snapped and walked over to one of the girls at the head of the table, who was doing some bad, bad things with a permanent marker to the wooden finish. Little black scribbles sprawled out well past the placemat.

"I'm going to go take a shower," she muttered, but he pretty much ignored her, which she guessed was at least better than needling.

It wasn't until she was in the shower that the situation really, truly started to sink in. Before, it had almost been surreal. Kids. A random brother-in-law of Derek's. More kids. As she stood under the warm spray, lathering up a washcloth, she started to sob. She collapsed in a pile in the tub basin and let the spray drown her as her breaths rattled and sputtered in her chest.

Derek was okay, she kept trying to tell herself. Derek was okay, and he was coming home, and everything would be fine, she tried to tell herself. Except herself wasn't listening. She was stuck in a house with his hostile family, and he would be there while they tore her to shreds. He would be there, and he wouldn't remember that he'd promised to help her out, that he'd promised to always come back. That somehow made it worse than if he weren't there at all.

She tried not to think of him, helpless and vomiting on the gurney in the trauma room. It was an image that would stay burned in her mind for a long, long time. And she regretted that she'd done the same to Derek with the accident on the pier. She hadn't realized, hadn't even begun to comprehend the deep psychological wound she'd given him…

She missed him already, missed him so much it hurt. She wanted this to be a shower where she smiled as she lathered up her lavender conditioner against her scalp, wondering if Derek would hop in with her. She wanted him to say her name like he had before, not like he was reading it out of a dictionary. She wanted him breathing next to her at night.

She didn't doubt that he would get his memories back. It was the one time during this whole horrific ordeal when actually knowing about head injuries because of her status as a soon to be brain surgeon was turning out to be comforting. He hadn't received any sort of penetrating injury. No damage to the brain matter itself, at least no obliterating damage. He'd never been rated comatose, not even close, which, really, was the main indicator of a severe enough injury that the amnesia might be permanent.

But waiting for the moment when she would slip back into his self-identity would be torture. It already had been torture.

"This is such crap," she moaned, leaning her head against the cool tiles. Okay, she could do this. She could be the fighter. She could stand up for herself on her own. She didn't need a knight in shining whatever. She'd managed well enough before he'd come along, back when she'd had her pink hair and combat boots phase. Countless times, she'd been insulted, derided. And she'd managed.

Except, she hadn't, really. She'd become dark and twisty and avoidy.

But avoiding twenty-three people… four sisters, four brothers-in-law, one mother, and fourteen children… That wasn't going to work in a house this size.

And that just sucked.

For a long set of moments, she sat there under the spray, worrying, agonizing, staring through the haze. The pelting water slowly washed her grief away. She heaved in a breath when she noticed the tears had finally subsided. She stood and finished with her shower slowly, taking time to scrub each and every last ache away, scour every pore, not caring that she was probably wasting the house's entire hot water supply. She was already a slutty home-wrecker, so she wasn't that worried about being labeled a water hog.

After she'd changed, she went to sit in the living room on one of the hulking leather chairs that held the corner of the room hostage. She set her purse on the doily that covered the small lamp table. Giggles and sounds of movement filtered out from the kitchen, but it was a distant thing. Rob didn't seem to care where she was, and she was happy to stay away. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed up the rental agency.

It was a long, painful conversation. But as soon as the failure of the airbag to deploy came to light, they became a lot, lot nicer. She rolled her eyes as they assured her they would have the car checked over by a mechanic immediately. Blah, blah, blah. Finally, it was over, and she sat against the cushy chair. Her muscles ached, and even despite the heinous amount of sleep she'd indulged in, she still felt tired, and underneath that, worried.

When she heard cars pull up outside, followed by the chatter of voices, she swallowed. Apprehension pulled her into a tight pile of nerves. She hunkered down in the chair like a piston getting ready to launch.

Meredith looked up as the door opened. Derek's sisters cut a swath through the entryway foyer, chatting and talking and bubbling, as if this wasn't some sort of monumental moment. Ellen and Stewart came next. Ellen kept peering over her shoulder with a concerned frown. Chris, Derek, and John came through a few moments after the main procession, preceded by a couple grunts and, "No, turn, turn this way, okay, yeah," type comments. Worry pinched the back of her throat when she received her first glimpse of them.

Chris was a large man. Not overweight. Just large. Huge. He had a buzz cut, and his whole demeanor screamed ex or current military. He had vaguely blonde hair, and a ruddy complexion. John was much closer to Derek's size, though he had the beginnings of a beer belly. His face was round and warm with a sort of innate cheer. They both stumbled through the door with Derek in tow.

Derek was practically draped between the two men, and it was obvious that the only reason he was standing was from their support. His eyes were hugged with deep, fleshy circles. His arms, wrapped over the men's necks, trembled with strain, and he wobbled sort of drunkenly as the three of them plodded forward. Derek had his eyes screwed shut and he was breathing in short, pleading little gasps. "I need to lie down," he whispered. "I can't. I need. I--"

Sisters, mother, and Stewart parted as they staggered him over to the couch in the living room. The kids rushed in, all screaming, "Uncle Derek, Uncle Derek!" as they started shoving macaroni noodle pictures and toys and other things at him in a sort of look-what-I-made smorgasbord.

Derek shrank back against the pillows of the couch. "That's great," he replied, his voice the barest wisp of air. He raised his hands to his head as his whole body started to shake with shivery, uncontrolled movement in the midst of all the people and noise.

Rob rushed in. "I'm sorry! I didn't warn them," he said, frantic.

Sisters converged in an army to draw the children away, and Meredith watched transfixed as the whole family moved as a unit. The kids were gone, corralled away by the she-Shepherds. Stewart plodded upstairs, saying something about getting the bed ready so they could move Derek upstairs. Rob, Chris, and John all moved out into the kitchen, mentioning something about starting dinner. Only Ellen remained in the room with Meredith.

Derek collapsed against the couch, laying himself out flat, though his legs still hung off the side, as if he didn't have the energy to pull them up. He swallowed a throaty, warbling, sick-sounding moan. Everything trembled. His eyes watered.

Ellen looked distraught. "Can I get you anything?"

"I just want to sleep," he said, miserable, shuddering with tension.

Ellen rubbed his shoulder. "Okay," she whispered.

Meredith came forward and grabbed his ankles, pulling them up onto the couch. She pulled off his slippers, and then she yanked the afghan off the back of the couch and laid it across him. Slowly, Derek calmed down, and the terrifying shakes receded.

Ellen left for a moment when he finally appeared to settle. Meredith looked up from the sofa as Ellen came back in with a glass of water in hand, and when she looked down, Derek was already out. Just gone. She'd never seen someone conk out like that. His breaths rasped in his chest, each one deep and racking, like the simple act of sleep itself was a Herculean feat.

He must have been exhausted from the hospital stay. If there was one thing Meredith had learned from her appendectomy, hospital stays were far from restful, which, really, was quite ironic. She stared at him, frowning. He looked so awful… Almost as bad as the night before, though it didn't help that his pajamas were too big for him, giving him a somewhat skeletal appearance.

Ellen placed the glass of water on the coffee table next to him. She sighed, watching Derek for a moment, patting his shoulder in a twitching, worried, repetitive motion. Meredith frowned even deeper when Derek didn't wake up from the disturbance.

With a final heaving sigh, Ellen stood and then walked out of the room toward the kitchen. Meredith watched her go, swallowing. Sitting out here in the quiet dark with a sleeping Derek was so, so much more tempting than going into the kitchen.

She frowned. Rip the band-aid. Just rip it. She could do this…

She stood and followed along the path Ellen had taken. She came into the room just as Ellen sat down at the kitchen table, frowning at the marker print that scrawled across the head of the table.

"Sorry, Ellen," Rob said with a sigh. "Fourteen kids is a lot to manage. I'll try and get the stains out tomorrow."

Ellen gave a weary smile. "Marker stains are the least of my worries right now," she said.

Meredith sat down at the kitchen table across from Ellen as John and Rob lorded over the stove, making something that smelled really, really good, though she couldn't identify the scent. Chris stood at the center island chopping up celery and potatoes and other things. They made it look like a serious job, though she supposed it probably was, cooking for fourteen kids and eleven adults. Her stomach rumbled as whatever was brewing in the pot started to bubble and steam and send a delicious odor her way.

Sarah, Kathy, Nancy, and Natalie came back into the kitchen in a staggered pattern. Nancy wiped her brow and sighed.

"Do the kids know they shouldn't make a lot of noise?" Meredith asked as everyone slowly trickled into the room. Everyone in the room looked at her, as if they simply hadn't noticed she'd been there this whole time.

"Yeah, we just told them that Uncle Derek is sick and to leave him alone. Hopefully, they'll take it to heart until we can get him up to the bedroom behind a closed door," Nancy said.

"We should leave him where he is for now, regardless. He really needs the sleep," Kathy commented. "He was in tears earlier today when they took him up for his second MRI and CT. I've never seen him like that. Never."

"Did the doctors give him any prescriptions for dizziness?" Meredith asked.

Nancy frowned. "No, he didn't get any prescriptions. Dr. Masden told us to get a follow-up appointment with a neurologist in a week or two, and that he could get prescriptions then if any symptoms were still persisting. Why?"

"If it's still bad tomorrow, I'll prescribe him one. He can barely walk unassisted, it looks like. I'm a little worried that the hospital let him go too early."

Ellen frowned. "What should we do?"

Meredith shrugged. "Keep him in a quiet, dark room and let him rest. Lots of people, lots of colors or lights, lots of noise, all bad."

Nancy frowned. "Oh, um…" and then she stuttered away into silence.

"What?"

"Well," Nancy said. "There aren't any guestrooms left. Should we put him in Kathy's room, and then have Kathy sleep with Meredith? Then John would be with Derek, and… Stu!" she called as Stewart wandered in. "What bed did you set up for Der?"

Stewart frowned. "I put fresh sheets on the one in Meredith's room. Why?" 

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Nancy," Ellen snapped. "They're both mature adults. They'll be fine in the same bed."

"But Derek doesn't know Meredith anymore—" Nancy protested.

"And Meredith doesn't know me," Kathy replied. "What's your point?"

Nancy flushed. "Fine. I'm just trying to look out for him."

Nancy did have a point… Meredith swallowed, trying not to let the sudden prick of tears overwhelm her. It was selfish, yes, but she kind of wanted him there next to her that night. Very selfish, she amended when the image of him panicked, force-fed a sedative leaked into her brain. She didn't want him to be uncomfortable…

"I can sleep on the couch," Meredith offered.

"You'll do no such thing in my house," Ellen snapped.

An awkward silence fell. Tension thrummed in the air like the pulse of a badly tuned violin. Everyone shuffled and peered this way and that, as long as it didn't make eye contact with anyone else. The analog clock on the wall tick, tick, ticked. Spoons scraped against pots. Liquid bubbled. Despite all that, the stillness threatened to suffocate her. She started inching out of her seat.

Natalie cleared her throat and looked over just as Meredith was about to stand and flee. "Meredith, how are you feeling? Any whiplash?"

"A little," Meredith said as she forced herself to relax in her seat. "I'll be fine."

Kathy frowned. "Are you okay, though? With Derek? I know this has to be difficult."

Meredith shrugged. She felt like she was under a microscope as everyone took a turn to stare at her. Why was everyone was being so nice to her all of the sudden? Well, everyone except Nancy. She swallowed. "I'm fine. It's… I'm fine."

"So," Sarah said, changing the subject as awkward silence clouded around them again. "How are you enjoying your intern year? Mine was awful. I remember a constant, splitting headache, all the time as I wished, no, prayed, for people not to call me while I was on-call, just so I could get some sleep."

"Are you a surgeon?" Meredith asked.

"Cardio-thoracic. I work at Mount Sinai. It's weird not seeing Derek and Addison roaming the halls anymore."

"I've fallen asleep sitting in the shower. It's pretty bad sometimes. Especially with no leave. Frankly, I'm amazed the Chief let me off for this thing," Meredith replied, trying like hell to ignore the Addison dig. It had been so blasé that it quite possibly could have been unintentional. Possibly.

"So," she said. "Is everyone a surgeon here, or something? I'm somehow getting the impression that Derek's family is a house of surgeon spawn."

Kathy snickered. "Nah. I'm a psychiatrist. Natalie is a teacher. None of our illustrious husbands are in the medical field at all. They just humor us well."

"We try, anyway," John muttered.

"What do you do, Ellen?" Meredith asked.

Ellen looked surprised she'd even been asked. "I didn't work."

Meredith frowned. "Oh," she said.

"It's not something I'm ashamed of. I raised five beautiful children."

Everyone smiled, and choruses of, "Love you, Mom," and "Thank you," flitted through the air.

Meredith swallowed at the sudden swell of family solidarity. "I'm going to go sit with Derek for a while," she said.

She retreated as quickly as she could without running, but she'd only made it to the foyer when Kathy caught up with her. "Hey, Meredith," she said. "It's okay."

"What's okay?" Meredith asked, turning around with a sigh.

"To be part of the family. Nancy will come around. She's just being stubborn. And Mom likes you; she just hasn't admitted it yet. I can tell."

"I…"

Kathy just grinned. "Go sit with Derek."

Meredith didn't need any further cueing.


	9. Chapter 9

Meredith woke to the sound of silence. Real silence. Not a tick, a creak, a mutter, a breath, nothing. She gazed at the ceiling, wondering what had roused her. She'd gone to bed alone.

Derek had been out cold still when the family had started winding down for bed. She'd gone to check on him while they had been settling all the kids down in their sleeping bags. She'd woken him up to make sure he was still fine. He'd mumbled and groaned and blinked. She'd managed to get him to answer a question or two that at least indicated he could think, and then he'd gone back to sleep almost as soon as she'd left him. Everyone had decided that it'd be better to just leave him be until he woke up tomorrow. Then they'd move him.

She felt the empty space across the bed. She was so unused to sleeping alone these days. Her heart throbbed each time her mind wandered to the cold vacancy on Derek's side. Derek's side. A man had a side in her bed. A year ago, had somebody told her she would be this committed to a relationship, this stuck under the throng of devotion, she would have laughed and told him or her that there was absolutely no way she was ever going to fall that fast or hard for anyone, let alone someone who was married, someone who was her boss… two things that had made it even worse on the scale of appropriateness.

She just didn't do the relationship thing.

It wasn't her.

She was the one who dragged a guy home for a night of bump and grind between the sheets, only to go sniffing in the water again as soon as the door had hit his ass on the way out in the morning. It's what she did. It was her modus operandi.

And Derek had gone and messed it all up. Now, she couldn't sleep alone. And she had mushy, gummy, nauseatingly sweet thoughts about him. She had X-rated thoughts about him, too, but not about anyone else anymore, aside from the occasional pinup model, which, really, would never go away in any sane person who walked the earth, so she didn't count that. It was downright weird, this sudden need to have him in her life. And scary.

And yet, so fucking right.

Her stomach growled, and she glanced at the clock. Four-thirty.

Apparently, her intern clock had woken her. This was about the right time for her to get up for an early shift, were she working that day. She sighed and groaned and pushed herself off the bed, knowing she wasn't going to be going back to sleep anytime soon.

She tiptoed out into the hall. Dim plug-in nightlights lit the length of it. It was long and wrapped around a corner at the end, probably to more bedrooms, though she hadn't explored at all yet. All the bedroom doors were shut. Not a peep came from downstairs, which meant all the children were still miraculously asleep in their sleeping bags in the den and the office and wherever else the Shepherd family had found to stash them during the night. They'd probably start getting up around six-thirty. That was when the good cartoons started. Or at least, that was when they'd started back when she was young enough to still enjoy them.

She pattered down the steps and into the kitchen, and was routing around in the cabinets before a noise made her still. The hairs on the back of her neck pricked, and goose bumps flushed their way down her skin. She turned as she pulled out a box of Raisin Bran, for the first time noticing that another person was with her in the quiet darkness. Derek sat at the kitchen table, head propped up in his hands. He stared at her in the darkness. Moonlight filtered in from the windows, casting his face with a pale glow.

He wiped at his eyes, but she caught the glisten of tears on his skin before he could clear it away entirely. "Are you okay?" she asked.

He didn't say a word, just stared darkly.

"Do you want something from the fridge?" she asked as she moved over to grab some milk to go with the cereal she'd found. "Something to drink?"

She didn't even hear him move. As she closed the door to the fridge, she gasped when his face hovered right in front of her, mere inches away, close enough that his body heat wavered in the space between them. He slid his hand around her waist and pushed her up against the fridge. His palm, warm and soft, slipped under her shirt and caressed her skin. She squeaked in shock when his lips came down on hers, but quickly silenced as her body realized what was happening for her, and pressed herself up against him. The box of cereal slipped from her grip as she surrendered to the bliss and wrapped her arms around him. The milk fell just after that.

One of his hands roamed down, down, down, past the curve of her butt to her thigh. He lifted her leg up against his hip as he caressed the underside of it and ground her up against the fridge. She shifted, panting desperately when he pulled away for a moment. His lips ran down the side of her neck, leaving a salty, evaporating chill behind. She twisted her fingers in the mop of hair on his head, careful to avoid the line of stitches. He sucked her breath away again when he roamed back to her mouth in a delicious, sensual plundering.

In the euphoria, in the heaven that was him actively, voluntarily touching her with his warm, sexy, surgeon's hands, actively, voluntarily kissing her, actively, voluntarily loving her, she didn't think to question things, didn't think to wonder why this was happening. It felt. So. Good. And she missed him so much already… Him kissing her filled a throbbing, painful void, and she wanted it, wanted it so badly she couldn't think straight, couldn't see straight. She just let him.

His warm panting buffeted her. His skin slid along her own as he ravaged her like he was a drowning man and she was his long-awaited shore. Everything, every nerve ending, every muscle, all of it burned with lust as he built her into a pile of needing. She curled her fingers, digging into his flexing rhomboids. He groaned, and the rumbling sound of it washed down her throat and filled her with her own low-pitched moan.

And then it all stopped.

He groaned again, but this wasn't a groan of lust or happiness, it was a groan of suffering. He'd been cradling her before, supporting most of her weight, but now she was decidedly on her own two feet, slipping from the awkward angle as his larger body pressed down over hers, his weight inching up against her with each passing moment. He pulled back and leaned his forehead against the cool refrigerator door, swallowing thickly, eyes screwed shut.

"Derek?" she asked, panting, trying to catch up with the situation. His body dipped, and she sunk her fingers tightly into his back, trying to hold him up.

"Damn it," he whispered. He clawed at the fridge with a shaking hand, righting himself, but only barely. "Damn it," he said again. And then he slammed the heel of his palm into the door of the fridge so forcefully that it shook. A few boxes that had been stacked on top cascaded to the floor. He hit the fridge again. And again. He stopped and stood against the door, breathing, breathing, breathing. His posture dipped again as he started to surrender to the floor, and this time, he didn't seem to be able to catch himself.

She gripped her hands around his waist, slipped out from the crush of him, and pulled his arm over her shoulder. He stopped falling, at least, but he didn't look like he was in good shape. She turned toward the kitchen table. He said nothing, but he let her guide him to the chair. He collapsed into it with a sigh and put his head down on one of the placemats, cradling himself in the dip between his crossed arms.

She rubbed his back. "Dizzy?" she asked.

He groaned. "The room won't stop spinning," he mumbled into his arms. His voice was thick and low and weeping and dark. It was the first time he'd really spoken, aside from his whispered cursing, since she'd noticed him in the kitchen. She frowned at the utter misery there. This wasn't just because he was dizzy…

"Did you remember something, Derek?" she asked. She put the milk back in the fridge. The carton thankfully hadn't split open when it'd fallen. She picked up the boxes, tilted up onto the tips of her toes, and put them back on top of the fridge, though she couldn't reach to push them all the way to the back where they'd first rested. Next, she picked up the Raisin Bran and put it on the counter. She checked the floor and nodded, confident that she'd picked up all the rubble from the box cascade.

Then she sat down next to him, pulling up a chair, scooting in close. Given that he'd nearly just sucked her skin off, she wasn't all that worried about breaching personal space barriers anymore, at least. She caressed his shoulders, his back, ran her fingers through his hair. At least he'd stopped shaking. Now he just hung there in a state of distress.

"Did you?" she prodded.

He turned his head, giving her a view of bloodshot, tearing eyes. "You smell like a flower," he said.

"Lavender," she said.

"I like it."

"It's always been your favorite."

He laughed, but it was a breaking, self-deprecating, shattering sort of sound. "I used to like coconut. Addison… She used this special rinse… It was at least thirty dollars a bottle. I used to like it," he said, but the words were far from reverent. Disgust warped his tone into a wretched, trembling thing. He sounded like he was ill.

"Derek, what is this about?" Meredith asked, trying desperately not to let herself fall into the trap of getting jealous over Addison. She had no reason for jealousy right now. Derek didn't have a full set of memories to work with. Of course he was going to mention the woman he couldn't remember divorcing yet…

"She smelled like that when I found her. She smelled like that when she begged me not to leave. All while he hid upstairs in the bathroom like a fucking coward…" His voice cut off with a choking sound. He twitched, and it almost looked like he was trying not to vomit. He ran his hands through his hair and stared at some distant point beyond the table.

She sat there, shock sucking all sort of coherency away. She had no idea what to do, what to say… She hovered, frozen, wondering. She'd known that finding Mark in bed with Addison had really upset him, but she'd never, never imagined this…

_It's like I was drowning, and you saved me. _

She scooted closer. Her chair legs squawked as she drew the seat across the floor tiles, until it bumped up against his chair and shuddered to a halt. She leaned in and wrapped her arms around him. Tiny tremors that she hadn't noticed from a farther distance raced through his body, but she was afraid to ask if they were because he was upset, because of his head injury, or a little of both. She ran her hand up and down the length of his arm before pulling him into her. He let her. She laid her cheek against his shoulder. He let her. He had no idea who she was and he was letting her do all these things, but it didn't matter anymore.

"That was over a year ago, Derek," she whispered against his ear.

"It was yesterday to me," he replied. He stayed trembling in her embrace, tension wiring his muscles to the point that she thought he might break like glass if she pushed against him too hard.

"I know," she said. She didn't really know what else to tell him. She had no idea what would make it better for him. She opted for silence, letting the moments try to soothe his frantic thoughts. The clock ticked from the wall over the doorway to the hallway, and the refrigerator contributed a low, dull hum to the air, but other than that, the room was silent. The house was quiet and still. She was surprised that Derek's violence against the fridge hadn't woken anyone up, but she wasn't willing to question it. Not now.

His skin felt warm against her own. Running her fingers through his hair felt so familiar. The scent of him, just Derek, curled around her, relaxing her. And yet, it felt strange and foreign. He was letting her do all these things, but he wasn't responding like he normally would have. When he looked at her, his eyes weren't hooded with the same catalog of feelings that she was supposed to draw from him, love, familiarity, all of that. He didn't speak to her with the same voice. His very demeanor didn't place her on a pedestal. It was strange, and weird, and different, but she missed him enough that she didn't care, almost didn't want the moment to end, despite how unhappy he was.

Eventually, she came to terms with the fact that this was all just a mirage. That he was distraught, and he was letting her touch him and love him like she wanted to only because he was vulnerable, and sick, and tired, and upset.

"Okay, come on," she said, her voice trembling at the vague, tearing sensation she felt in her chest. He languished like some sort of broken thing, and so she pulled up on his shoulders.

"Wh-- What?" he muttered, breathy as he registered the change in the atmosphere. His eyes, glassy with what almost seemed like a daze, gradually regained their focus. He blinked and looked at her. Something dark and heavy clouded his stare.

"Get up, Derek," she said.

He stood, slowly, only to stumble and claw out against the table with a gasp. She wrapped an arm around his waist. "You can lean on me," she said.

He laughed, just a little gruff thing scrabbling for air under the weight of his misery, but it was a laugh, nonetheless. "But you're tiny," he said.

"Oh, get off it, Derek, and just lean," she said. "I'm not a helpless little waif."

She took a step forward and paused to make sure he was on the same page. He shuffled forward with her, slightly awkward, groaning. Five steps away from the table, and it was obvious that she was going to be doing most of the heavy lifting. "Are you dizzy?" she grunted as they stumbled forward. "Or is it something else?"

"Just dizzy," he gasped. "Whenever I stand up, it's like things have hopped on a turntable and won't get off."

"I'm going to write you a prescription tomorrow," she heaved as they plunged into the hallway.

"You're a doctor?" he asked.

"Surgical intern," she replied through gritted teeth. "Soon to be neurosurgical resident."

He didn't reply as they gasped and groaned and shuffled into the living room. She peered at the sofa, thinking it would be easier to drop him off there, easier, and yet… She couldn't bring herself to do it. He was close to her, and breathing, and warm, and even though he didn't know her, he was letting her be near, and she didn't want it to end.

"Where are we going?" he said when she shuffled them past the couch and headed for the stairs.

"To a real bed. Where you will get some real sleep. And you won't worry about Mark or Addison anymore," she replied.

The first step had him flailing against the railing. He panted. His hands started to shake, followed shortly by the rest of him. She bit back a pang of guilt for putting him through this with the sole purpose of fulfilling her own desire to ease her loneliness. She glanced back at the couch. She could still turn around.

He took another step, almost entirely on his own, and she rushed to follow him, to match his strides. The distraction was enough to convince her to stop worrying about it. They managed to get all the way up the stairs with a gargantuan effort.

Natalie poked her head out of one of the rooms down the hall. "Everything okay?" she muttered sleepily as a yawn cracked her lips apart like a roaring lion. Her shoulder-length, slightly curled, dark brown hair stuck out in all directions. Her bathrobe had been flung across her shoulders in a haphazard sort of way. The tie at the waist sat loose enough on her hip that the top and bottom gaped open, revealing a t-shirt and flannel pants underneath. She wiped her hand over her face and sighed in a motion that reminded Meredith of Derek when he woke up in the mornings before he was ready to be awake. Even the fuzzy gaze and the preference for flannel pants looked like Derek.

"It's fine," Meredith said, swallowing against the unsettling feeling of having his sister, who looked like a bad Xerox of Derek's female clone, watch them while they stumbled down the hallway. "We're just going back to bed."

Natalie shrugged. "Okay," she said, and she disappeared back into her bedroom. The door closed behind her with a soft thud, and Meredith sighed in relief that the audience was gone.

She guided Derek through the doorway to the king-sized bed where she had been sleeping the past two nights. He collapsed onto it on his back with a sigh. She stood there, uncertain for a moment as he settled in and drew his shaking hands up onto his heaving stomach. Now that the effort of exertion was gone, his features sank back into the upset, tormented look he'd had downstairs at the kitchen table. Angst clouded around him like a thick, solid, writhing thing.

"I can sleep on the couch if you'd rather be alone," she offered as a sudden slip of fear tore through her. He was grieving his marriage, sick over finding the woman he'd loved before in bed with his best friend. And Meredith was just… Meredith. What did she have to offer? And what if, without alcohol, he didn't want her this time?

He swallowed as his gaze drifted to her. "No."

"Okay," she replied, and she climbed in on her side. She slipped under the sheets, which felt cool against her skin for a few moments until they started soaking up the warmth of her body. She thumped back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling, listening to his soft breathing. It had a sluggish, calming effect on her, and her eyes started to drift shut as her nerves bled away into the darkness.

"It's Mark. That's the part that makes my insides roil," he said.

She blinked and turned to him. "What?"

"I'm not married anymore. I have no wife. It's all gone," he said, staring at the ceiling, not turning his head to meet her gaze. His eyes watered. She could see the tears slipping out of the corner his eye. He reached up and brushed his shaky hands at them. "I finally remembered what triggered it. And the fact that it's Mark is what makes me ill. I mean, Addison upsets me… but… it's not… it's not what I would have expected. And I--"

_My home was wrecked well before you came into the picture…_

The bed shifted, and he rolled toward her. His eyes were messed up with a layer of water. Tracks ran down his face. He wrapped his arms around her and slid up against her. "Is this okay?" he whispered in her ear as he settled against her body like a puzzle piece that fit.

"Derek, anything you're comfortable with is okay," she replied as the backs of her eyes pricked up with tears.

He sighed. "I don't even know you, and I miss you."

"I'm so glad you didn't die," she sobbed into his chest.

He crushed her up against him, and suddenly it was easy to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

The first time he woke up that day, he moaned and scrabbled for a pillow to throw over his head. "Please, no," he groaned. "D-E-R-E-K. I'm fine." He screwed his eyes shut and tried to go back to the abyss. Exhaustion clawed at him like a wild beast, scraping down behind his eyes with sharp, wounding talons, picking apart his muscles like he was carrion, glutting on each sinew.

He didn't want to be awake. He just didn't. He was tired of everything shaking out of control. He was tired of barely being able to make it to the bathroom by himself. He was tired of sitting up and wishing he hadn't. He was tired of light stabbing at his eyes when he bothered opening them. He was tired of noises seeming five hundred times louder than they should have been. He was tired of not being able to keep up with people speaking, tired of the dim haze that gripped his mind, making him feel like the world was on fast-forward and he was stuck in slow motion. He was tired of remembering Mark, sliding up against Addison's body in a wave of motion as she screamed with release. He was tired.

Except whoever had woken him up persisted. A hand rubbed down his back along his spine. It felt so good in the midst of all the misery that he sighed. "Derek," whispered a familiar female voice as the scent of lavender curled down his throat. "Come on. I want you to take one of these."

He rolled onto his back and cracked an eye open. The blur resolved into Meredith. She held a glass of water in one hand and a popped open orange prescription bottle in the other. He blinked and groaned. "What is it?" 

"It's for your dizziness. It'll make you feel better," she said. Her voice was like a gentle wave, lapping at him from far away. He ran his hands over his face. Stabbing pricks of stubble that'd been allowed to languish on his face for over a day and a half scraped at his skin. He hadn't taken a shower since before the accident that he still didn't remember, so who knew when that had been. He probably looked wretched and sick and pasty, which, really, was how he felt.

But the look on her face as she stared at him in the dimness had no hint of disgust in it. Just concern. She jiggled the pill bottle, jarring his wandering attention back to her. "Derek?" she whispered.

He stared at it. It was probably a sedative. There weren't many things to treat dizziness that didn't have side effects that were likely to knock him out. Even if it was only mild, he was out of it enough already that it would easily do the rest of the job. But at the moment, that seemed like a blissful idea. He groaned and wrenched himself up into a good position to swallow without choking, sighing as the familiar swimming sensation started with the increased elevation.

He swiped out with a shaky hand and downed the pill with the water in a jerky, clumsy motion, and collapsed back onto the bed. "Thank you," he mumbled as he felt the pill slide down his throat. He closed his eyes.

She rubbed her hand along his chest. It felt so nice, so comforting. She seemed to know everything he liked. "It's still Monday, right?" he asked, his voice hoarse and bitter against his throat. He was pretty sure it was Monday. He wouldn't still be this tired if he weren't recovering from Sunday at the hospital. He hoped.

"Yes. Lunchtime. Almost everyone is gone right now. It's pretty quiet. Something about a mass shopping expedition made everyone clear out fast."

"Why didn't you go?"

"I'm… Not much of a shopper," she replied.

"Oh," he said. But that was about all he managed before he felt like something underneath him was coming up to yank him down, down, down below. He remembered groaning. He remembered as he dipped his eyes shut that she was still staring at him, looking beautiful, smelling like lavender. The repeated motion of her tiny palms against his shirt calmed him, and he just let it take him. The exhaustion swallowed him whole not long after.

The second time he woke up, he still felt like crap. But he needed to get up. Needed. He stumbled to his feet and gasped in surprise. The only thing that was making him trip was his own barely-wakefulness. The room moved, yes, but it was slow enough that he could pretty much ignore it, like a dull ache in the background, an annoying hangnail.

He poked his head out into the hallway, squinting at the bright light until it resolved into something more reasonable that he could see in. Quiet stillness hugged the hallway. A series of small taps and thumps filtered up the steps from downstairs, but it was a quiet, unobtrusive sort of noise, merely indicating that the house was inhabited by someone other than himself. What he found himself exceptionally grateful for was that there were no children running around, laughing, giggling, screaming. He loved his nieces and nephews, but right now, all of that would have been like someone raking his or her nails down a chalkboard. The brief moment when the kids had attacked him on his arrival had almost convinced him he was going to die. It had felt that awful when they'd shoved their glue-covered, smelly papers at him and shrieked with excitement. He wondered if perhaps his family, having realized this, had subtly gotten everyone out of the house for his benefit. It would be just like them…

He made his way to the bathroom and relieved himself. And then, on a whim, he decided to take a shower. He really did feel disgusting, and now that he could stand for a prolonged period, it didn't seem like the effort outweighed the benefits anymore.

He locked the door and stripped, shucking his soiled clothing while a curl of distaste pulled his lip up into a scowl. The warm water on his skin was heaven, utter heaven. He stood there, almost weeping from the comfort it provided. Soap. Soap was a wonderful thing. Just feeling clean again helped with the depression that'd been dragging him down into a dark, dank hole. Steam curled up around him, opening up his pores, making him sweat, but the sluicing water drew it away, and it felt like the sick feeling that clung to him was unlatching, spiraling off him into the drain, gurgling away. When he finally stepped out of the tub, it wasn't because he was ready to be done. It was because the water had started losing its heat.

He grabbed the first towel from the large stack on the back of the toilet. During these huge reunions, his mother usually just constantly restacked clean ones every day, claiming it was easier than trying to remember whose towel was whose. He wrapped it around his waist, picked up John's pajamas, and wandered back to the guestroom where Meredith had stashed him, only then realizing he had no idea where his clothes were.

He thought about it slowly for a few moments before he noticed that there were two suitcases propped up against the farthest windowsill. He went over and dipped down into the one he vaguely recognized as his own, and he pulled out a pair of his own pajama pants and a t-shirt. He put them on, relishing the clean, cool feeling of them.

He sighed and stared at the bed, almost ready to sink back into it, when a flash came, unbidden, like a spear of light into his brain. "Mark," Addison had moaned as she'd slammed up into him. Mark had grunted and twitched, and then Addison had screamed. Derek had watched for a whole twenty seconds in frozen horror before they'd seen him. A whole twenty seconds of thrusting, grunting, and moaning before suddenly Addison was sobbing with guilt, not screaming with pleasure. And Mark, being Mark, had just mumbled something about letting the two of them work things out before he'd darted into the bathroom, all while Addison had frantically tried to stop Derek from ripping the sheets from the bed. Mark hadn't even had the decency to look all that ashamed. He'd just looked… sated.

"He was just here," Addison had cried at Derek.

He swallowed against the disgust suddenly roiling in him, and the sick, foggy feeling that the shower had sort of washed away came crashing back into him like a wrecking ball. He blinked and walked out of the room as quickly as he could manage, shuddering, almost gagging at the blast of imagery.

The steps were a challenge that he took slowly, shakily. Every time he closed his eyes at the effort, a hyper real picture of Mark, turning toward him, glassy-eyed with orgasm, ripped through his head. He made it to the foot of the stairs and wandered into the kitchen, again wincing as the light levels bumped up to new, uncomfortable heights.

"Der, good um… afternoon, I guess," Nancy said with a smile as she glanced at her watch. She was sitting at the table reading some magazine. "You look wretched. Are you feeling all right?"

"No," he grunted and pulled up a seat at the table. "I feel like I was in a car accident and my head got cracked on the steering wheel." And I feel like I saw my wife fucking my best friend. He groaned into the heel of palm as he rested his head on his arms and his elbows on the table, wishing the picture of it would just go away.

Nancy clucked her tongue. "No need to snap."

"Where's Meredith?" he asked.

Nancy shrugged, but her look of nonchalance failed to convince. "Out for a walk with Kathy, I think. Kathy practically had to drag her out of the house. Really, she's very antisocial."

His eyes narrowed. "I'd be antisocial too if I had to spend the day with you."

"Jeez, Der," Nancy said with a frown. "I'm only trying to kid."

"Except you're not."

Nancy sniffed and looked back at her magazine, her entire demeanor morphing away from the fakeness into something dour and unamused. "I noticed she got you into bed with her already…" she muttered as she pretended to read a very interesting article. "How did that happen?"

"Nancy…" Derek groaned into his hands. "It's none of your business."

She slammed the magazine back on the table. "You're my brother. It is my business when you're going to ruin your career and you've already ruined your marriage over some slut you picked up in a bar one night. It is my business when you don't even remember who she is, and you're already sleeping with her again. You're vulnerable, Derek. You need to be careful."

"I can't even walk on my own. You think I had sex with her?" he asked, incredulous. He felt foggy, grasping at things she'd said like pulling flying twigs out of a stiff gale. Most of the time he wasted trying to grab onto something. Meeting at a bar? They'd met at a bar? But then Nancy spoke, and pulled him away from the act of wondering.

"Well, you ended up there somehow…" she grumbled.

He swiped his hands through his hair. The spinning in the room was starting to pick up. And his head started to throb. He ran his fingers along the bridge of his nose as the sound of Mark's bass grunting slammed up against his ears and made his head swim. 

"Jesus, Nancy," he said, followed with a moan. "I remembered something. I got upset. Meredith was awake. She helped me with it. That's all. And what the hell are you talking about, ruining my career and my marriage?"

"She's **your** intern, Derek. She works **for** you. How do you think that looks to the medical community? And Addison… She flew out to Seattle after you. She dropped her whole life to live with you out in that horrible little trailer. She was trying. I know she had a fling with Mark. But she was trying, Derek. And that woman poisoned it for the both of you."

Another few tidbits of information he hadn't expected. He'd actually gone after one of his own staff? She was pretty, and sweet, but hardly sex on feet. What the… Trailer? Trying? And then his scattered brain registered the rest of what she'd said. She knew Mark and Addison had had an affair, and they were still even having this conversation?

"How can you think a fling with Mark is even remotely all right?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Because it's Mark."

"Because it's Mark…" he said, his voice low and cautious and confused.

"Sex to him is like indulging in ice cream. It's bad for him, but it has just about the same deep meaning."

He frowned. "Nancy, are you even listening to yourself? You're comparing having an extramarital affair to having a dessert."

"You didn't even try to forgive her, Derek," Nancy protested, her eyes flaring in what he could only describe as desperation. "She spent so many nights with me on the phone in tears because you wouldn't even give her the time of day. You spent the whole time you 'tried' to rebuild your marriage making goo-goo eyes at that insipid little intern."

Silence crackled like a livewire in the room. He frowned, trying to process what she'd just said. He… tried to fix things with Addison… Tried to… He started to get confused, started to wonder over the exact timeline of everything he was missing. He knew now that he had a hole the size of a year. But… Where did Meredith fit into that if he'd tried with Addison again? And… And… Why? Why had he… He blinked as his thoughts oozed around in his head, bumping and colliding at the speed of molasses, and yet there were so many of them, he started to pant, overwhelmed with it all. All of that, and behind it all, Mark and Addison were still screwing. Still moaning. If he'd had anything in his stomach, he was pretty sure it would have ended up on the table right then.

"Nancy," he said, swallowing against the slowly building sickness twisting in his gut, knocking around behind his eye sockets like anvils slamming into pavement. "Right now, right this moment, I'm fucking amazed I even tried at all."

"How can you say that?" she hissed.

He slammed his hand into the table, frustrated when it started to shake, but it only incensed him more against the mounting torment. "Do you know what it's like to walk into a room and find your spouse screaming someone else's name? Someone you would have entrusted your life to? It's like rotting from the inside out. It makes me nauseated. It's like someone's shoved a five-day-old corpse in my face and won't let me look away. I can't close my eyes without seeing it and wanting to vomit. I want to hate them both, but all I can do is feel sick inside. Sick and awful, like everything up until that moment was my life being wasted. I know I wasn't around, I wasn't there. But it takes two, Nancy. She never fucking said a word. And then I find her with Mark, twisting up against him, slick with sweat. And I can't breathe, Nancy. I can't breathe just thinking of it. How do you rebuild a marriage from that? Tell me how I was supposed to do that."

Nancy's lower lip trembled. "I thought you didn't remember."

"I wish I didn't. I wish I could stab my eyes out," he snapped.

"It'll get better after you've had time to process it."

"Nancy…" 

"It will!"

"What the hell is wrong with you, Nancy?" he growled.

"Nothing!" she said as her eyes watered over and she started to cry. "I'm sorry. I'm… I have to go." She wiped her hands frantically at her eyes and fled, the front door slamming moments later, leaving him wondering what the hell had just happened, wondering, and shaking, and sick.

His stomach heaved, but he clamped down on it, and he laid his head down against the cool surface of the table, pushing the placemat away as he collapsed. The grain felt nice against the sudden heat radiating from his skin. The sunlight falling into the room through the huge bay windows and the skylight overhead, which had been barely tolerable before, was bright and stabbing and painful. He sat in the chair, twitching, shaking, unable to stop as the stress twined around his heart. He closed his eyes, but everything was still too bright.

He stood, flailing at the sudden need to get out of there, but now the room was spinning at full tilt, and with his eyes shut against the glare, he didn't think he could make it. He sank back to the table, his hands gripped around his stomach, miserable as a headache flared into existence.

The front door creaked open and shut. He heard voices, distant. And then suddenly they were there in the kitchen. "Derek?" Kathy asked from far away. "What are you doing out here? Are you okay? What's going on?"

He cringed away from her as the loud syllables pounded into his eardrums and made him shudder. The lights blessedly dimmed as somebody pulled down all the shades, though the sounds of the snapping blinds made him flinch. A glass of water and a pill was shoved at him, which he somehow managed to swallow. Somebody rubbed his back, whispered soothing things at him. And it all slowly, gradually settled away, like the pieces of a snow globe storm settling after a harsh shake.

He breathed, finally risking opening his eyes. Kathy sat across from him, staring and worried. Meredith sat in the chair next to him. "You okay?" Kathy whispered.

"Yeah," he said, his voice grating against his throat. "Had a fight with Nancy. Little bit too much for me on top of everything else."

Kathy frowned. "And she left you like this? Alone?"

"She didn't know," he said. Meredith replaced his glass of water with a fresh one, and he sucked it down.

"Okay," Kathy said with a sigh. "I'm going to go see if I can find her, I guess. You'll be all right?" 

"I'm fine now," Derek muttered.

Kathy nodded and left, leaving Derek alone with Meredith in the kitchen. She frowned at him, but didn't really press him about anything that'd just happened, which he was very grateful for.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. "Have you even eaten at all today?"

Derek sighed. Now that everything had settled again, he was surprised to find he actually was kind of hungry. "I could eat," he said, trying to make it sound noncommittal.

She smiled. "All right. Well, I don't cook. So, um. Let's see." She went over and started working her way systematically through the cabinets, peering at the contents of each one.

He watched her, watched the tiny motions of her tiny hands as she gripped the handles of the cabinets, watched her hips sway as she moved back and forth. Her hair… sort of a mix between mousy brown and golden blond, hung in a loose, sloppy ponytail with bits and pieces sticking out of the main loop, which was twisted back under.

"So, when you said you were going to be a neurosurgical resident," he said. "Did you mean at Seattle Grace?"

She turned and smiled. "Yes. You're kind of my boss."

"Kind of?"

"Okay, totally my boss," she amended, and then she frowned. "In the professional arena, anyway."

"How did that happen?" he asked. "I mean… It's…"

"Inappropriate?" she asked, a smile curling at her lips.

"Well, yeah."

"When we met, I didn't know you were my co-worker. It was my last night before my internship started. We got drunk and had some fun. I kicked you out in the morning, thinking I'd never see you again. And then we kind of collided at work. I was mortified. You were smug. And, after that..."

"After that…"

"You said yes a lot, I said no a lot. I gave up after a few weeks and went with it. You get points for persistence, but not for suave. And I can't believe you're just now realizing it's inappropriate. You couldn't have done that before with all the vehement no, no, nos?"

He raised an eyebrow, trying desperately not to be amused at her recounting of events. She made it sound so flirty and fun despite how utterly wrong it all was. And it was. Utterly wrong.

"You told me no," he began slowly, trying to absorb it all. "After I knew you were my intern, and I still wouldn't leave you alone?"

"Nope," she said.

"Why?" he asked.

She turned. "You're not doing good things to my ego here, Derek."

"I'm sorry," he stuttered. "It's not that you're not attractive. Because you are." He swallowed as he tried not to think suddenly of her shirt, tightly gripping her breasts, her mischievous, curling smile, the sexy way a loose bang wisped down over her forehead. Earlier, when he'd been thinking she wasn't sex on feet… That must have been the concussion talking. Because now that he was scrutinizing, she was starting to make him almost pant. He tried to think other thoughts for a minute, tried to let himself get lost in the cloud that gripped his mind. One. Two. Three. Five.

"It's just…" he finally managed to stutter. "I… I never…"

She grinned, saving him the embarrassment of trying to dig himself out of that hole when she said, "What, you mean you weren't an egotistical ass before you came to Seattle?"

He shrugged. "Uh… I guess not?" 

"Honestly, Derek, after seeing you last night, things are starting to make a whole lot more sense to me."

"Well, that makes one of us," he said.

"You overcorrected. Everyone wants to be desirable and in control. And you probably didn't think you were either. I know the feeling. Believe me, I do."

For a moment, he just stared at her, just stared, unable to speak. "I guess," he said, his voice scraping the lower registers of his capabilities, low and throaty and wounded. He stared down at his hands, squeezed his eyes shut against another sudden flash of Mark, pounding into Addison.

"Sorry," she said. "We don't have to talk about this. And, I do, by the way."

"Do what?"

"Find you incredibly desirable," she said, her lips curling as she practically purred at him.

She walked over to the fridge and pulled out the milk carton. He watched her, transfixed as she lithely canvassed the kitchen, sexy, swaggering, and apparently his. He blinked finally when he noticed a bowl of muesli in front of him. He stared at it for a long moment.

"This is my favorite," he said, and then he felt dumb. Of course she probably knew that by this point.

"I still say cold pizza is better," she replied with a wink.

"Cold pizza?" he said, incredulous. "That's pathetic."

"Somehow, I knew you'd say that."

She sat down across from him with her own bowl. She smiled at him, deep and full. And when she looked at him, he had no doubt how much she loved him, how much she felt and worried for him. How much she desired him. She hadn't just been throwing words at him to comfort him. She'd meant it.

"So, tell me about all the egotistical, assy things I did," he said, suddenly desperately curious.

He couldn't say exactly when it happened. Couldn't say when his point of view changed. It could have been that moment when she'd smiled at him before she'd started plundering her own bowl of cereal. It could have been when the spoon had pressed flat against her lower lip and she'd licked the underside in a cute way that had, for some reason, made him lust for her to be doing that to him instead. It could have been when she'd reached across the table and poured him another bowl, and the scent of her had overwhelmed him.

But it was definitely between the time he'd sat down and the time he eventually got up.

He fell in love with Meredith, sort of like getting hit with a bolt of lightning. One moment, he was merely happy to watch her, to talk with her, anything to help him sort out the mess in his head. The next moment, the air was scorching, and he was hanging on every word as she explained in detail how he'd pursued her relentlessly for weeks. He didn't understand it. Didn't know how the world had gotten so turned around on him in such a short period of time.

But suddenly, the memory of Mark and Addison didn't seem so important anymore.


	11. Chapter 11

Meredith sat in the living room, cringing at the silence as it seeped through the house. Nothing stirred. No appliance kicked any sort of ambiance into the air, at least none that she could hear from this distance. The air ducts weren't even pushing any air since it was nice enough outside that equilibrium between indoors and outdoors had been reached and had resulted in a comfortable temperature. She almost wished the Shepherds had a pet or something. Something to bark or meow or squeak... Anything to counteract the fact that all she could hear was her own blood rushing in her ears.

Kathy was still gone and so was Nancy. She had no idea what that meant, or whether to be worried or not.

Derek had gone back to bed after finishing off another bowl of muesli. He'd stayed at the table for a while, chatting with her, but as the conversation had worn on, he'd visibly faded, and fast. It'd been so heart twisting to watch, too, because it had been obvious he'd wanted to stay just by the way he'd kept trying to prop himself back up in his chair, kept blinking furiously against the onset of sleep only to start drooping again in his seat. He'd been forcing himself well beyond his limits. By the time he'd finally given in, he'd been monosyllabic, unhappy, and slow moving. He'd had a little trouble following the subject toward the end of their conversation, and he'd grown darker every time she'd had to repeat herself. She'd wanted to comfort him somehow, to tell him that it was okay, that he was bound to be a bit lagged for a while, and that there was no need to be embarrassed, but he'd eventually stood, making a frustrated apology as he finally surrendered to reason, and then he'd lumbered out of the room at a glacial pace.

But none of it, none of that pounding exhaustion written all over his features, had stopped the look.

The look.

She'd noticed it when he'd been partway through his second bowl of muesli. He'd looked at her like he remembered her, like he knew her, like he loved her, like he wanted her, like he had to have her. Like she was some sort of beautiful gift that he couldn't understand what he'd done to deserve.

She hadn't realized how much she'd missed that look until it'd been plastered back on his face, swathing his features with a dreamy, almost drugged gaze. She was his drug. And, somehow, he'd re-arrived at that conclusion with nothing but conversation to back the opinion up. There had been no sex. No alcohol. Nothing but chatting.

And he'd still given her the look. She had no idea what to make of that. None. The only thing she knew was that it made her giddy. And the giddy was attacking her and making her into a big pile of la-la… whatever.

"Are you kidding me?" Cristina finally spluttered after what seemed like a conversational gap rivaling the size of the English Channel, drawing Meredith back from her miles and miles of circuitous musing.

Meredith sighed, gripping her cell phone loosely as she blinked away the warmth that had started to numb her from the tips of her toes to the ends of her fingers. "No…" she said, not even able to care that much that Cristina sounded like she was about to bust a blood vessel or something.

"You have to be kidding me…" Cristina protested.

Meredith sighed again. "No…"

"You know…" Cristina mused. "If you picked right now to gripe to me again about how the universe hates you, I might be inclined to agree for once…"

"Cristina…"

"Amnesia? Seriously?"

"Seriously," Meredith said as she flopped down flat onto the couch with a heaving thud. The ceiling hovered above her, distant, shell-white, and immaculate. She raised her hand above her face and made a game out of swapping her focus back and forth. Immaculate ceiling, blurry fingers. Blurry ceiling, focused fingers. Immaculate ceiling, blurry fingers… She felt lackadaisical, but in a happy sort of way, almost like she was stuck in some sort of chemically assisted euphoria. A smile broke her face in half before she could stop it, before she could yank it back inward.

After another long, interminable pause, Cristina said, "He's not going all McPining for Dr. Montgomery, though, right?"

"No. I get the impression their marriage was already on the rocks at the point he got bumped back to. And, since then, he's remembered catching her with Mark."

"But he doesn't know you."

"Not from before, no," Meredith said as she continued staring at her hands. Another smile. Another quick erasure of said smile, superficially anyway. She felt like a big, stupid smile, even without one slathered on her face. Every part of her started to shiver with the giddiness. It felt like a weed in her veins, growing, twisting. But it was a nice weed. Like a pretty dandelion or something. She was full of pretty dandelion… things. It was…

Well, Cristina would say it was disgusting. And sane Meredith would probably agree.

"Why do you not sound upset?" Cristina demanded. "Are you drunk?"

Yes, Meredith wanted to say. Because that was exactly what she felt like. What this felt like. The mess of weird, happy-happy stuff rolling around in her head. Except she hadn't had anything to drink but milk and water that day. "I'm not drunk, Cristina…" she managed to slur. "I'm just…"

"Just?"

Meredith struggled with the words, but really, it all came down to one, simple thing. And she felt so high school for saying it, but she did. "I think he likes me," Meredith whispered, unable to stop another smile from bleeding across her face.

A warm, cheerful haze swelled into her, making her almost want to shoot up from the couch and jump, pace, do something, anything but languish there on the cushions in a stupor. She settled for pumping her fist, only to feel juvenile as she brought it back down against her chest. This wasn't high school. This was… Well, she was acting like her first crush had smiled at her or bought her one of those stupid valentine carnations. And it was downright embarrassing that she was getting this worked up about it.

But… But…

"But you said he doesn't remember…" Cristina said. Meredith could picture her friend, sitting there, rolling her eyes in desperate confusion.

"I know," Meredith said, her own honeyed voice sounding foreign to her ears. Foreign and weird and… really happy.

Another long silence. It was as if Cristina just didn't know what to do with this conversation. Just had absolutely no idea what was going on. "You are drunk. Aren't you," Cristina said, not even remotely as a question, and then her voice dipped into something low and sympathetic as she continued, "Meredith, he'll be fine. Amnesia that severe rarely lasts. Give it a week."

"I'm not drunk, Cristina," Meredith replied. "I know it'll come back. It's already started to. I'm really not worried. And I suck at the sick thing, by the way."

"The sick thing," Cristina said, her tone flat.

"You know," Meredith said with a helpless shrug. "The sick thing. The part where you have to be all supportive and strong and worried. Derek's sick and miserable, and I'm actually happy. I'm horrible. I'm a horrible person, Cristina. I shouldn't be happy while Derek's sick and miserable. Only horrible people are happy when people they love are sick. So, that's me. Horrible. Horrible, horrible, horrible. Because right this moment, I feel like I'm high. It's horrible, Cristina!"

"You're not convincing me you're not drunk."

"It's just…" Meredith paused as the words skidded to a stop but her head kept spinning. She couldn't explain it. Just couldn't. Especially not to Cristina, not over the phone. She and Cristina communicated so well, but a lot of it had nothing to do with words. It had to do with body language. And that was taken away. She felt impaired, like a runner without legs, or something. And it sucked, trying to explain the stupid, grinny, girl crushy thing she had going on in her head. Cristina didn't have juvenile blush sessions over that cute boy who'd smiled at her. There was no common ground there. None. Well…

"Have you ever gotten a present and wondered why? Or wondered if maybe it was a mistake somehow?" Meredith said.

"If you're equating McDreamy to a present, you're definitely drunk," Cristina practically growled. "Hello? The man broke you. Are you sure the amnesia isn't contagious?"

Okay, so maybe that hadn't been the best example. Meredith sighed.

"It's just… he likes me. No alcohol involved. And I'm pretty sure Nancy has been trying to convince him I'm a worthless piece of trash. But he… I saw it this afternoon, Cristina."

"Saw what?"

"The look he always gives me."

"The one where he's peeling your clothes off with his eyes?" Cristina asked.

"No," Meredith said, shaking her head, "The other one." She melted when she remembered it. The look. The look. The look. He didn't even know who she was, not really, and he'd given it to her nonstop for a half hour.

"There is no other one, Meredith," Cristina protested. "He's a McOneTrackMind."

"It's the look where he's thinking I'm a present," Meredith said. Another smile ripped across her face. It should be illegal to be this freakin' smiley, happy, insane.

"To unwrap, yeah," Cristina said with a snort. A rustle filtered through the phone, briefly blasting Meredith with a hiss of sound.

"Not a naughty present!" Meredith said, her voice upturning with laughter though she didn't actually quite laugh. "It's like… He's amazed that I'm somehow his."

"If you say so, Meredith."

Meredith growled in frustration, and yet, couldn't bring herself to feel all that frustrated, what with the happy whatever blissfully seeping through every fold of her brain. She put her hand back up and stared at it. Immaculate ceiling, blurry hand. Blurry ceiling, focused hand. It didn't help stop the craziness, not that she exactly wanted it to stop. "I'm not explaining this very well…" she said as she continued to watch her shifting focus without curiosity, lips upturned in a grin. "It's just… It's like… Proof."

"Proof."

"That despite all the horrendous amounts of crap that's happened, this is where I'm supposed to be," Meredith said.

Cristina scoffed. "Gag me with poetry…"

"Sorry," Meredith said, though she wasn't, not really. Whatever this was, whatever this really was, she seriously wished she could just bottle it up. It was far better than tequila.

Another long pause filtered through the line. Long, long, long. Cristina breathed on the other end of the line. There was another hiss as she did something with her phone, perhaps shifted it from one ear to the other. Finally, she said, "I get it, though, Mere. You're being nauseating about it, but I get it. And I don't think it's wrong that you're happy."

Meredith raised an eyebrow. "You don't?"

"No," Cristina said with a sigh. "I'd kill for the universe to hit redial, just to make sure I got the message."

Seriousness poked through the giddy. "You're having doubts about Burke?"

"Burke, no. Marriage, yes. He's trying to make me pick a cake, Meredith. A cake! This was supposed to be a small thing… You, me, Burke, and McDreamy. That's it!"

"Maybe it's a small cake?" Meredith offered.

"Meredith," Cristina huffed, "The samples he's been bringing home are what I would qualify as small cakes…"

Samples? She tried not to laugh. Meredith could just imagine Cristina cringing away while Burke attacked her with a dopey smile and a fork bedecked in a pastel swirl of frosting and sticky cake bits. Cristina would snarl and hiss, and the fork would probably end up somewhere Burke didn't want it. She wondered how many 'samples' Cristina had had to endure so far.

"Maybe it's true to scale?" Meredith managed to say between silent spasms of laughter. 

Cristina's eye roll was almost audible. "Now you're reaching, Meredith."

"Sorry…" Meredith said as her laughter tamped down. "Sorry," she said again, this time serious. She didn't know what to say. She was so happy right now, and Cristina sounded downright… miserable.

"Anyway, tell me about the McFamily," Cristina said, interrupting Meredith's blind scrabble for appropriate words of comfort. "I'm dying of curiosity here. Is it a family of beautiful assholes?"

Meredith chuckled, deciding to ignore the non-subtle dig. Cristina was bad at subtle. "Well, it's big," she said. "And they are all very pretty people…"

"And?"

"And Nancy hates me. Sarah and Natalie are parked in neutral. Kathy is wonderful. And I have absolutely no idea where I stand with Ellen. The rest of them, kids, spouses, et cetera, I assume side with the Shepherd to whom they are most related," Meredith said, suddenly feeling like she was listing out a plan of battle. And really, she guessed, she sort of needed one, if she was going to make it through the rest of this week. She didn't have any idea how she would get through to Nancy. None. The woman was the embodiment of bitterness.

Cristina's phone rustled. "So, you've got a bell curve, essentially."

"Essentially," Meredith said with a shrug. "But I think Nancy should count double…" she muttered.

"Hey, you're doing better than I am, at least," Cristina replied. "Burke's mom still thinks I'm a racist stripper. And Burke's dad sort of smiled at me. That's vastly leaning toward the negative end of the spectrum. You've at least got one proponent!"

"Is being a racist stripper better or worse than being a slutty home-wrecker?" Meredith asked.

"I hate families," Cristina said, practically snarling.

Meredith sighed. "Families hate me."

"Well, at least with McDreamy off in lobotomy land, you get sympathy etiquette."

"Sympathy etiquette?"

"Yeah. It's what well-to-do people do because they're stiff and repressed. They won't kick you while you're down unless they really hate you. Milk the amnesia for all it's worth, I say."

"You would…" Meredith said.

"I so would," Cristina agreed.

Meredith shifted the phone to her other ear, glancing at her watch. It was well after dinner. The Shepherd crew would be home soon, which meant another evening doused in a swath of chatty, family solidarity stuff. She didn't know if she wanted to deal with that tonight. At least she hadn't had to do the dinner thing. She didn't think she could do the dinner thing right now. Not when thoughts of Derek sent her into a pile of mushy girl crush dandelion weedy whatever. They'd probably think she was a stoner slutty home-wrecker then.

"So, how are things at work?" she asked.

"What, in surgical withdrawal already?" Cristina asked, not seeming to mind the sudden subject change. 

"I might be ludicrously buzzed on the happy, but I'm in family overload right now. Give me blood and gore please. Something good."

"Well, I got a whipple with Bailey, but the guy crashed on the table before she did much, so that kind of sucked." Cristina sighed. "Sloane has totally been letting me ride him for extra procedures, though. He really wants Chief, so he's trying to be all good teacher."

"Do you know when they're deciding that?" Meredith asked.

"I heard from Burke that the board meetings about it are getting pretty intense. It could be soon."

Meredith frowned as the last remaining sliver of giddy shucked away. "Huh," she said as she remembered the conversation she and Derek that night two weeks ago when he'd come home late, angry, depressed, upset.

"What?" Cristina prodded when Meredith languished in silence.

"It's just…" Meredith stuttered. "I wonder why Derek took leave when they're that close to deciding?"

"Well, either he thinks it's in the bag, or he thinks he doesn't have a chance. That'd be my guess," Cristina said.

That… That stopped Meredith cold. It was the first thing that truly broke through the languishing haze. She frowned.

His family seemed to be very supportive of his success… Surely, despite his repeated prior absences, they would have let him escape this engagement if he'd told them the biggest promotion of his life was on the line. But…

_I'm not going to get it, Mere._

He'd flat out told her he knew he wasn't going to get it. And now that she thought about it… His tone hadn't been a speculative one. He'd been forceful. Definitive. As if he just. Knew. Was resigned to it, even.

Damn it, she cursed herself. Why hadn't she noticed that before when he'd been trying to tell her? There'd just been so much other crap going on. He'd floored her when he'd revealed that he'd known she'd given up that day in the water. And then there'd been the sex. The angry, violent sex. It'd distracted her. Really, really distracted her.

She blinked the imagery away and forced herself back on topic. Since when was being chief something Derek wouldn't snap and fight for? He'd spent so many nights talking about it. It was his professional dream. He wanted it. He wanted it. He wouldn't just let it drop to the wayside. He wouldn't just roll over…

_I'm just. Not. _

And yet, it seemed that he had.

Now, she couldn't even ask him about it. Well, she could, but it wouldn't get anywhere. He'd probably be more confused than she was.

"Meredith?"

"It's nothing," Meredith said, trying to wipe away her perplexed frown and not entirely succeeding. "Not important right now anyway."

"Me-- Crap," Cristina hissed, distracted suddenly. For a brief syllable, she'd almost sounded like she was going to protest. But now she was fumbling with something. The phone shuffled, sending a buffet of noise at Meredith. "I'm being paged. If you get to have amnesiac sex, will you let me know how it is? Maybe I should bonk Burke on the head to get rid of the cake idea."

"Very funny, Cristina," Meredith replied, chuckling despite herself, despite her ludicrous situation. "Have fun."

"I will if there's blood," Cristina said. And then she hung up.

Meredith blinked at the phone and clapped it shut, trying not to be jarred by the abruptness at which that conversation had ended. She missed Cristina already, and she'd only been gone from Seattle for two and a half days. Hell, she missed everyone at this point. How was she going to last the rest of the week?

She smiled when she thought of the look again. Okay, maybe it wouldn't be so bad, she decided as the happiness that had receded bleached back into her bones.

The roar of a caravan pulling up to the house, followed by the percussive staccato of door slams and the whisper, chatter, giggle, laughter of many people startled her into reactive mode. Without even stopping to think about it, she launched off the couch and thumped up the stairs.

Now seemed like a very good time to go to bed.

She slammed the door behind her, cringing when she realized just how loud she'd been. A spear of guilt pricked her. She'd probably woken-- Yes. She'd woken him.

"Meredith?" Derek mumbled as he stirred and rolled over to look at her blearily. His eyes glittered in the darkness, still covered with the film of sleep. A small line of light from the hallway filtered in through the gap under the door.

She shrugged helplessly at him as the front door down in the foyer rumbled open and hit the stop as though a village mob were pouring through it. Voices thundered down below, and then immediately hushed just a little. She heard snippets of conversation about shopping, and food, and wondering where Kathy and Nancy were, and wondering how Derek was doing. Her name slipped in once or twice, making her wince every time. Little feet poured through the space downstairs as children expanded in a cloud from room to room.

Meredith sighed, leaning back against the door, sinking just a little, all while Derek watched her. After taking a few minutes to collect herself, she yanked down her pants as she stalked over, and tumbled into bed in her t-shirt. Derek rolled over, pressing his stomach and chest up against her back, and he wrapped his arms around her, spooning her in a tight embrace.

"They don't bite," he whispered into her neck as his warmth seeped into her.

"I just can't do the family thing right now," she said. 

He rubbed her hip. "S'okay," he mumbled, his voice slurring as he drifted off again in moments. His warm, even inhales and exhales replaced her nerves, breath by breath, with contentment, and she smiled. His hand curled over her hip, gripping her even in sleep. She felt safe. The distant roar of his family seemed unimportant.

He liked her.

She fell asleep with a giddy smile pulling at her lips.


	12. Chapter 12A

**Author's Notes: I just wanted to drop a huge blanket thank you to all my reviewers :) You have no idea how much all your comments brighten my day :)**

* * *

Meredith woke up alone. The dim light of morning filtered through the sides of the shades covering the windows. The clock on the nightstand read 6:30 AM. Still a little early to get up voluntarily while on vacation. But…

She blinked, too dazed with sleep to care much that Derek wasn't wrapped around her anymore. The prescription bottle sat on the nightstand on his side of the bed. The cap had been placed back on, but it sat a crooked angle, indicating he'd taken some before leaving to go wherever he'd gone to. His sheets were pushed back against the foot of the bed. She blinked again, unsure about whether she should worry that he'd left her or be happy that he felt well enough to get up on his own.

She yanked on the knit pants she'd discarded the night before in her mad dash to the bed, combed her fingers through her hair, hoping she looked presentable, and wandered out into the hall. The scent of morning coffee drove her onward, down the steps, past a gaggle of kids playing twister in the living room in a cloud of bubbly laughter. They'd pulled the coffee table to the side of the room, and four of them were in a human pretzel-like formation, giggling. They didn't seem to notice her as she wandered past.

She proceeded through the hallway and out into the kitchen. Derek sat at the kitchen table in a bath of dim morning sunlight, still in his pajamas, a fan of cards in his hand, which he held steady, without tremors. His hair was mussed with sleep, sticking out at odd ends, almost like he'd gotten some sort of bizarre, uneven haircut. He looked better than he had looked the day before, but still not all that healthy. His pallor was a little off, and he held his frame tensely, as though he expected himself to start twitching if he let go of his muscles for a moment. And something else, well, it just looked off. Perhaps he was still feeling a bit foggy. It was hard to tell if it was the morning or the head injury that was making him seem… lethargic. Probably the latter, since Derek was the most sickening morning person she knew, what with the smiles and the good breakfast spiels.

A steaming cup of coffee sat near the hand that wasn't holding the cards. "Go fish," he said to Mary, the brown-haired, bouncing girl that Meredith had met her first day at the house. Though he'd injected some cheer into his expression, his voice sounded a little flat, just enough for her to notice. Mary seemed oblivious.

Mary giggled and drew a card from the pile that sat between them into her tiny hands. "Eights?" he said after a long, careful pause. He looked up at Meredith, and his face melted into a gorgeous smile when he saw her approaching. "Want to join me? She's a card shark. I need help."

Mary giggled again. "Go fish," she said cutely, showing off a vast array of tiny, crooked baby teeth.

Meredith laughed as she went to retrieve some cereal from the cabinets and some milk from the fridge. "Who says I would help you?" she said.

He frowned and ran his hands through his bedraggled hair. "This is what I get for trying to compete with the innocence of youth." He pointed sort of behind him toward the counter in a vague gesture. "I made coffee. It's in the pot."

Derek absently drew a card from the stack, watching her as Meredith poured some of the Folgers into a clean, black mug decorated with a Phantom of the Opera mask and a rose. She sat down next to him at the table with her bowl and steaming cup. She started crunching away, hoping to get through most of it before the flakes got soggy, watching over his shoulder as Mary proceeded to beat the pants off him. He was smiling and being playful at all the right moments, but still, he just didn't seem quite with it.

"Where is everyone?" Meredith asked as she leaned against him. He reached over with his coffee cup hand and ran his palm along her arm.

"Still asleep, I think. We're the only ones that went to bed at a reasonable hour." He winked at her, and the look he gave her made her want to melt into his lap. So, it was still there. The look. Sleep hadn't obliterated it.

"How are you feeling?" she asked when he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. She rubbed his shoulder as she took another spoonful of Raisin Bran.

"Still shaky, still slow," he replied after a long pause. "How about twos?" Mary shook her head. "But better. The dizziness is definitely subsiding, although I do still need the pills. Noises aren't bothering me so much anymore, which is a relief."

Mary stared at Meredith with a deadly serious look. Her blue eyes were wide and white and radiant. "He has a cushion," she said, flashing her baby teeth as she flicked her fan of cards.

"Concussion, Mary," Derek corrected.

"I'm glad it's better. You're the only one that plays cards with me," she said. "Sixes?"

"You only say that because you're winning," Derek replied as he forked over his sixes and Mary laid flat another set of four-of-a-kind. She had about half the deck down on the table in front of her. Derek had one set.

All three of them looked up as a growling, sleep-hazed Natalie, Nancy, and John stumbled into the room in a dreary procession.

"Coffee?" Nancy rasped as Meredith stiffened in her seat. Nancy looked just as bedraggled as Derek, possibly more so, but she didn't have the same veneer of cheer. Definitely not a morning person, it seemed, which, actually, was nice. Meredith didn't think she would be able to deal with an entire family of happy-happy morning people. She was glad it didn't seem to be genetic.

Derek's gaze ticked from Nancy to Meredith and back to Nancy. John and Natalie sat down at the table and just sort of stared absently, like they still weren't quite awake yet. Derek pointed to the countertop.

Nancy shambled over and poured three mugs. Then she shambled back and sat down at the table. Meredith shifted closer to Derek without even realizing it, though he seemed to be aware of it himself. He rubbed her side with his hand in a comforting gesture as he prompted Mary for sevens.

The game ended with Derek solidly defeated, and he was shuffling for another round when his mother wandered in. Meredith swallowed when she realized there was still room at the table for more. She tensed, but resisted the urge to bolt. She couldn't keep bolting. She couldn't. She had the whole rest of this week, and she had to meet these people, had to start getting along with them, or this would never work, because as much as she hated doing the family thing, Derek seemed to love it.

Even though he was ill and probably feeling like a truck had hit him, he was still smiles, still sitting there entertaining one of his sister's kids, actually being rather charming about it. She'd known he was good with kids. She'd seen his adorable bedside manner countless times. But here, surrounded by relatives, people he wasn't obligated to be nice to just because they paid his salary, it just seemed so… right. And she would never want to take Derek away from his family.

"Der, sweetheart, are you feeling better?" Ellen asked as she settled into the seat directly across from Meredith. She looked perfect, even in the morning. Her hair was set correctly. Her mauve-colored silk bathrobe gave her a stately appearance. She didn't even seem groggy or out of sorts.

"Yes," Derek said shuffled one last time. "Yes, a lot, actually."

Meredith frowned, just a little. She wasn't sure what to make of Derek's rather cursory explanation to his mother when he'd gifted Meredith just a few moments ago with a rather detailed, slightly less rosy picture.

Mary smacked the first card as it landed in front of her. "He has a cushion!"

"Concussion, Mary," Derek corrected absently as he dropped a card in front of himself.

Ellen smiled warmly.

Meredith saw something in the far bottom of her field of view. She looked down and saw the blue diamond print of a facedown playing card. She slapped Derek's hand when he worked back around to her in a slow circle, but he just grinned, pulled his hand back, wagged the card there, taunting her, and then dealt it on top of her. She flicked the card off, and it landed face up in the center of the table, revealing a queen of spades.

"No thanks," she said with a laugh.

"Oh, come on," Derek protested, giving her his best puppy dog expression. "You're afraid I'll win?"

"Hey, you're the one obsessed with fishing. I think you have an unfair advantage."

Mary laughed. "That's okay. I'm gonna go see if Nina wants to do something."

Derek leaned down and grinned at her. "Okay," he said, and Mary hopped off her chair and darted off.

Meredith watched him as he settled back against the table, propping his head against his hands as he stared dully into his coffee cup. The cheer leaked out of him breath by breath, until every semblance of the morning wakefulness he usually harbored was gone. He looked… tired. He sighed and ran his hands through his hair.

"You okay?" she prodded.

Ellen scrutinized Derek as he looked up and smiled at Meredith. "Just drained," he said.

She smiled and rubbed his back. He groaned and let his eyes droop shut as she relaxed him. Ellen stared at them seriously, but Meredith didn't let the woman cow her into keeping her hands to herself. Only when Derek sighed, relaxed, did she pull her hands away. She started munching on her cereal again as he went back to sipping his coffee.

"So, Meredith," Ellen began abruptly as she folded her spindly fingers in front of her and sighed like she was preparing to go into battle. She cleared her throat, high-pitched, and incredibly too composed for someone who had just woken up. "Where did you go to school?"

Meredith paused, mid spoonful. The bran crunched to a stop between her teeth. Her eyes widened. She hadn't expected any sort of scrutiny like this. She'd expected to be ignored like a little wallflower. A slutty, home-wrecking wallflower.

"Uh," she muttered around her mouthful, swallowing with a choking noise. Derek frowned at her, but actually looked interested in her answer. "I went to Dartmouth for undergrad studies…" 

"Did you like it?" Ellen asked, matter-of-fact. Meredith could almost picture a cup of tea and crumpets or something. The woman was dripping with the prim and proper thing. 

Meredith frowned. She'd been drunk or passed out for most of her college career. She'd turned pro at waking up in strange beds, sliding across some unconscious guy, getting dressed, and fleeing. She'd partied. She'd gone to class just enough to keep her grades high with minimal effort. She hadn't really had any focus, any sort of drive then, other than to stick it to her mother.

"I loved the campus…" she replied, noncommittal, hoping Ellen would move on to prod about other things, that this would be a cursory twenty-questions type of interview, because she wasn't sure she wanted to admit what a drunk, party hearty person she'd been, and she was a little too flustered right then to come up with some sort of elaborate lie...

Impulsively, Meredith shoved another spoonful of Raisin Bran into her mouth and let it sit there while her cheeks bulged. She probably looked like some sort of chipmunk, but Ellen smiled politely anyway and waved her hands in a little flitty motion. "Did you just slide into their medical program from there, or?" 

"No," Meredith stuttered after swallowing the mucky mess of flakes, which, suddenly, didn't taste so great. "No, I sort of took a break between college and medical school."

Ellen's eyebrow rose. "A break?" 

"Yes," Meredith said, wondering why it suddenly felt hot. Nancy and Natalie had both stopped sipping drowsily on their coffee and were staring at her. Derek was back to moping over his coffee, blinking with painful slowness. She wasn't sure he was even listening to his mother pick her apart. "My… life was a little complicated then." 

"I see," Ellen said. "So how long was this… break?" 

"I'm thirty-two if that's what you're getting at," Meredith snapped as her inner tension broke like a brittle rubber band. She swallowed, regretting her outburst almost before it had finished falling from her lips, but she just couldn't… She wasn't used to… Ellis had always asked these things, just as a precursor to slam her into the pavement with criticism some more, and… And… She sighed, frustrated.

She felt a warm hand touch her shoulder. So, he had been paying attention… "Hey," Derek whispered, soothing, but it wasn't enough to offset the thumping panic that was growing slowly in her gut, no matter how irrational it may have been.

"It's not…" Ellen stuttered. She flushed and let a quick, flustered sigh loose. "I was just trying to…" she said, and then, suddenly, she was back in the tea-party mask, calm and collected and probing. "What made you decide to go to medical school?"

Meredith gritted her teeth together. "My mother, in a roundabout way."

"Oh?" 

"Look, no offense, but this is making me uncomfortable," Meredith found herself snarling, unable to stop herself as the shaky feeling thump, thump, thumped behind her breastbone. Maybe this was genuine getting to know you conversation, maybe it was, but she just couldn't help it. She didn't want to talk and do the family thing. She couldn't… couldn't… The twisting pull of fight or flight was yanking her steadily toward flight. She tried not to lose what little poise she had as she finished with a quick, "I don't really want to talk about my mother." 

"I'm sorry," Ellen said, her voice weighed deep into a lower octave with… sympathy? Caring? Meredith didn't know what to think. "I know she died," Ellen said after a pause.

"You don't need to give me fake sympathy. I'm fine with it. I'm fine. I'm okay," Meredith said, shoving her chair back from the table.

"It's not fake, dear," Ellen said, her voice honeyed and kind and nice. All the things that Ellis had never been. "And you don't seem to be fine." 

"Look. Look, I'm not good at this," Meredith said. She was lashing out. She was lashing out and she knew it and it kept coming out of her… "I'm not good at families. I'm sorry. I need to… Go." She stood, ticked a little toward Derek, who had his head down in his hands again. He twitched. She wanted to reach out and make sure he was okay, but everyone else was staring at her. Flight kicked in with a stiff jab that left her breathless. She ticked back toward the door, took a baby step forward.

"Getting a little complicated now, is it?" Nancy said with a smirk.

Meredith swallowed. "What are you talking about?" 

"Bet you didn't plan this when you scoped him out in that seedy little bar…" Nancy hissed, her voice almost curdling into a sob. 

"Nancy," Ellen sighed. "That is enough."

Anger burbled. Meredith opened her mouth, but the words that followed came from Derek as he slammed the heel of his palm into the table and stood, his chair scraping back against the floor. "What is your problem, Nancy?" he snapped. "So, I met her in a bar. I'm the one who…" he panted. He blinked. He groaned. "I'm… I…"

"Derek?" Meredith asked, leaning back toward him.

"Der?" Ellen asked as she stood and walked to his other side. The two of them gripped his shoulders, but after a moment, he shoved back into the wall and stood against the window, shrugging their support away with vehemence. 

"I'm the one who picked her up. She tried to ignore me," he said.

Meredith's mouth fell open. "You remember?" she whispered. 

"This isn't some cheap thing. This isn't… something she engineered. I… I started it," he hissed, low and mean and angry in Nancy's direction, though his gaze shifted at times to Natalie and Ellen.

"I was sitting in the back, moping over some scotch, moping over Addison and Mark, wondering how the hell I was ever going to pick up the shambles my life was in right then, and I saw… She was wearing a black dress. Beautiful. Her hair… everything." He smiled, the exhaustion on his face melting just a little as he remembered.

"It was elegant. Not trashy. I thought she'd just come in after a bad date at some fancy restaurant or something, you know, to drown her sorrows. She was asking for tequila straight up. And she slouched a little. Like she was worried about something. Worried… maybe sad, even though she was hiding it with a smile. Sort of like me trying to sit there in a bar and not let my life wreck me any more than it had already. I watched her come in and sit down…"

Meredith breathed. She remembered that night with a sharp, cutting sort of clarity, at least the beginning of it. He'd sat down on the barstool next to her and bugged her, wearing his red shirt, preening like he knew he was a gift to whatever woman chose to unwrap him, and she'd wanted him to go away at first, but he'd seemed so stupidly charming, despite his arrogance. The look in his eyes was what had finally convinced her to let him have a go at her. When he'd said he'd been hiding his pain. There'd been a flash, and she'd known he was serious behind his joking demeanor.

She remembered. The pictures jab, jab, jabbed into her brain. She remembered, and… he remembered. Her heart did little flip, flip, flops as he continued.

"And my world just… stopped," he said, a faraway look in his eyes. He smiled despite the fact that his hands were shaking. "It stopped. And I wasn't thinking about Addison anymore. I was wondering how I would meet her. So, I sat down next to her, ordered more scotch, and used the stupidest pickup line in the history of mankind to start up a conversation, because I was sitting there with my world stopped, and I didn't even know what her name was. It was like a…" he paused, swallowing, struggling for a word, something accurate… He finally decided on, "Like lightning."

_So, is this a good place to hang out?_

His faraway, happy look dissolved into a glare as he stared at his sister. "I was the one who decided to sit down, Nancy. Not her. And she… god, after she found out I was her boss, she tried to say no. She did. But I was a self-indulgent jackass, and I wouldn't let it go. So, don't you dare lay any of this on her, Nancy. If you're going to be a bitch, at least yell at the right person."

"Derek!" Nancy snarled. "You have no idea what I—" 

"No," Derek said. "No. Why can't you just understand that sometimes love makes absolutely no sense?"

Meredith swallowed as the tension thrummed in the air. Ellen, stricken, stood a foot away from Derek, looking like she wanted to reach out and steady him. He was rather shaky, standing there under his own power, looking pale and incensed and, well, angry, but nearly ready to fall over. Nancy floundered by the table, her mouth opening and closing like a fish stuck flopping around on dusty land, for once, utterly flummoxed and speechless, no snarky, right-hook comeback peppering the air beyond her lips. Natalie and John remained silent, reddening observers. John seemed rather engrossed in his mug of coffee.

"I should…" Meredith stuttered. "Go…" 

"How were we supposed to know that, Derek?" his mother finally spoke, her voice a harsh, hurt whisper. "How were we supposed to know that you're actually serious about all this? You never called the entire time you were away. You left us to speculate. You just left, Derek. And we didn't know why…"

"Did it ever occur to you to just give me some damned space?" Derek spat, his lips pulled back in a disgusted snarl. "Do you have any idea how much seeing Addison and Mark messed me up inside? I was drowning," he said, and then he pointed to Meredith. "I was drowning, and she saved me. She **saved** me, and you're treating her like she's a gold-digging tramp who decided one day it would be nice to destroy my marriage. My home was wrecked before I even laid eyes on her, before I ever left Manhattan."

"Yeah…" Meredith muttered, inching away as she saw Ellen start to blink with tears. "Um… going now…"

An arm snaked out and grabbed her as she turned. She gasped in surprise as Derek pulled her up against him and turned them to face Ellen, shoving her out in front of him in a surprisingly gentle motion. "No. No, you're not," he said. "Mom? This is Meredith Grey." He rubbed the small of her back in a comforting, circular motion. "She's my girlfriend, who I love. She's also my intern, but don't hold that against her. She's a great doctor. She scrubbed in with me on her first day because she's just that good. She figured out my patient had an aneurysm before I did. And I'm glad I met her in a bar when I was just a guy and she was just a girl. Because if this hadn't gotten started, I'd probably still be sucking down water."

Everyone stared with open mouths. Derek's hands flexed around her shoulders. She felt his fingers digging into her skin. Ellen sobbed. Nancy sputtered. Meredith's muscles tensed, coiling down into a spring that paused, paused in a valley, pressed and straining into the floor, and then... Pop. She didn't care. She just ran, ignoring the pain as she forcibly escaped from Derek's grasp. She heard him grunt behind her, but she just flew, flew, flew.


	13. Chapter 12B

She headed toward the door, but Kathy stood there, frowning, her hair misbehaving as it flew off in wayward black curls, her eyes still glazed with sleep. She was mid-yawn as Meredith barreled toward her. Kathy dropped her hand from her mouth, her eyes widened, and the yawn slipped away into a gaping maw of surprise, but Meredith didn't stop. Kathy rolled her lips, started to say something, but Meredith darted to the right, up the stairs, shot into the bedroom, and slammed the door behind her. She hoped nobody would follow her. She hoped. She collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceiling, panting.

She hated families. She hated families. She hated families. And Derek had just remembered her, finally, really remembered her, and he'd just gone to bat for her like Babe fucking Ruth, and she'd freaked out and ran. What the hell was wrong with her? What the… She panted, trying desperately not to hyperventilate and only partially succeeding.

The door creaked open, and she regretted not locking it. Kathy had probably chased-- A very male hand gripped the edge of the door, and Derek wobbled in. He shut the door behind him and leaned back against the door. For a moment, he stood there in stillness, his face pale, muscles buzzing with a subtle tremor, and then he slid down the door and collapsed onto the floor. He drew his knees up to his chest, and he breathed as he put his forehead down against his knees.

"Derek?" she said. Concern sucker punched her panic away as she shot up from the bed and raced over to him. She'd done this to him. He'd stressed himself out and now he was sick. "Do you need to take some more pills? Are you dizzy? What's wrong?"

He shook his head minutely. "Overwhelmed…" he said with a breathy, wispy voice.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "You didn't need to do that for me." 

"No," he choked. "It's not that. It's—" He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fingers into fists.

"Remembering?" she asked. 

"Before, I would try and go back and just get a blank hole. Now, I keep going back and pulling stuff up. I can't. Jesus." He jerked and rammed his elbow back against the door. 

"It's okay," she tried to soothe him. "How much?"

His biceps trembled. He'd folded his entire body against his knees. She didn't have much to work with as he panted and moaned. "Don't know…" he sighed. "A lot."

A light knock filtered through the door. "Derek? Meredith? Are you two all right?" the familiar voice of Kathy whispered.

Derek didn't answer. He just groaned into his knees.

"We're fine," Meredith said.

"Okay," Kathy said, though she didn't sound entirely convinced.

Meredith sat next to Derek while he worked through things, unable to do much more than rub his back and whisper at him. He subtly started leaning into her touch more and more the longer they sat there. He made a weird noise in his throat that sounded almost like a whine of pain.

"Derek?" she prodded.

He twisted, clawed out behind himself at the doorknob, and tried to stand up with a gasp, only to flail against the door. She wrapped her arms around his waist, trying to steady him. He twitched at her touch and let loose a grating, gasping noise. She frowned, unsure what to do. He was acting like he was in pain, like he was dizzy, but… it didn't quite match up right.

He rested against the door, breathing, but as the seconds wore on and she kept rubbing his back, trying to comfort him, he just got more and more antsy. He twitched and moaned and squeezed his eyes shut. "Are you sure you don't need the meclizine?" she asked.

"No," Derek said. "No, it's just… I'm. I seem to be remembering a lot of really great sex."

Her mouth fell open.

He turned and stared at her, though he still had his body draped against the door. His pupils were glassy and dilated, and his skin had flushed up into a healthy, pinkish tone. Sweat lightly dotted his brow. His lips parted, and he let loose a little breathy pant.

She snorted once, raising her hand to her mouth in a futile attempt to cover it up. It became hearty, rampant laughter when his glassy look degenerated fully into desperation. "Thank you, I'm embarrassed enough," he said in a low, throaty voice.

He banged his head against the door and groaned, everything quivering in that telltale way that normally was a precursor to him jumping her and turning her into a desirous pile of moaning, panting, pleading. Except he didn't move. He just stood there, pasted against the door as though he didn't think he could move without falling over, and the tension kept coiling, coiling, coiling. He pawed against the grain of the door, little scrabbling, frantic motions as his breathing started coming faster.

"I'm sorry, Derek. It's just…" She stopped and frowned. She had been going to say she'd thought he was in actual pain, but from the look of him, he almost was. "You… Whatever. Here, let me help." She reached out, gesturing for him to lean on her.

He shakily peeled himself from the door, wrapping an arm around her. When he turned, the front of him pressed into her briefly while he worked on his balance, and she couldn't help but gasp. He was ready. He was **really** ready.

"A lot of really great sex," he repeated when he saw that she'd noticed. "We seem to have had… a lot…" He panted. "Uh…"

"You are such a guy," she said with a chuckle.

"You try getting months worth of self-starring porn stuffed in your brain all at once, and you see how you react," he replied, his voice a low, frustrated growl.

They stumbled to the bed and he collapsed onto his back. He sucked down air and shook. She peeled everything off and tumbled down on top of him. "Mere," he hissed as she reached down and ran her fingers underneath the waistband of his pajamas. "I can't."

She smiled slyly as she wrapped her hand around him. "You sure feel like you can to me…" 

"No," he whispered desperately. "I mean I... I don't think… I said I didn't need the meclizine, I didn't say I could… I think--" He stared up at her, almost helplessly. "Talk about inopportune timing…"

She frowned. "You said you remembered lots of sex." 

"I did. I am," he whined and twitched up against her.

"Then you should remember that I can drive just as well as you can," she whispered, and she leaned down and kissed him before he could protest. She licked his lip and plunged deep into his mouth as he groaned and started to give in. He didn't protest at all as she yanked his pants down with one, two, three swift tugs.

"Buckle up," she purred.

He sprang free, and she gripped the base of him. He gasped in a desperate, frantic way that said he was going to spill if she touched him again, so she moved up his abdomen. She straddled him well above the waist and leaned back in an arc as she guided his hands to touch her, to make her ready.

"Mere," he moaned, cupping the cleft between her thighs. She felt herself start to throb, start to grow damp and seeping as he expertly kneaded her, leisurely like the slow burn of a controlled brushfire. She sighed and slid back, ready to take him.

She rocked a little, found the tip of him, and slid down the length of it, sighing as her body stretched to accommodate him. "Do you remember this?" she whispered as she sat against him, hands splayed against the tightened muscles of his groin. But he had already been pretty much ready to explode before they'd even started. He flailed a little as her wetness settled around him, flailed and choked. His muscles started to tense up, and he scrabbled for the sheets, for something to grip violently.

"Mere," he sighed. "I'm going to—"

She reached down behind herself, exploring with her index finger, just at the base of him on the underside. Cosmo had said putting pressure on the right spot would stop him from… She slipped her finger back further, making him shudder at the stimulation of her blind search. He mumbled something nonsensical at her, something about embarrassingly quick finishes… but then she found it, found the small little indentation behind the base of his arousal and pressed her finger down with barely three seconds to spare.

He spluttered and jammed himself up into her in a spasm. "What are you do--" he managed to say before he dissolved into a series of moans, and the "ing" came out more as an exclamation point than a syllable with meaning. His eyes screwed shut as his entire body shuddered. His lips parted, and his head went back against the pillows for a brief, choking moment. When he resettled and opened his eyes, they were glassy and unsated and watery, and he was still stiff and fully loaded inside her. He heaved a shuddering sigh beneath her.

"Okay, I don't remember that," he whispered, hoarse, shaking slightly with tension that hadn't been allowed to escape. Excess water dripped out of the corners of his eyes, though it wasn't really crying, wasn't really tears.

"It's new," she whispered, keeping her finger firmly down against him as she began to rock atop him like a wave. His warm hands slid up against her skin, rubbing up from her abdomen into the swell of her breasts, cupping her, pushing her up, and then he drew his roving search back down, down, down to her pelvic area. She twitched when he found her inner folds and began to draw the pad of his thumb around in slow, maddening, counterclockwise circles, all while he gripped her thighs, tense, needing. He was hanging on, but only barely, and he looked at her with a starving sort of want.

She grinned and ground into him in a slow, clockwise circle to counter his own ministrations, which stopped abruptly as he sucked in a breath. She found her rhythm, grinding down when she hit six o'clock, pulling up and away as she neared twelve. She slid up and down and up and down, building him back up into a frenzy, until he was nonsensical, his palms running like fire along her skin as he begged her to just let him finish all the way. Every muscle in his body trembled, and his skin slowly became slick with sweaty sheen.

He was at her mercy. Completely, utterly. Unable to finish as long as she had her hand where it was.

She felt her own burning pressure build with each passing second, until she was panting and twitching against him, almost unable to control herself, but somehow, in the haze, she kept her hand down, kept it there, interrupting his attempts to finish. "Derek," she sighed as one last thrust against his pelvic bone sent her into the throes of release. She gasped and tried not to scream as the explosion poured through her lower abdomen, sending her clenching, twitching around him. The roar took her away. Her toes curled, and she dug into him without meaning to. In the throbbing back draft, she fell down against him in a deadened, star-spangled crush. She panted into the juncture of skin that connected his jaw line to his neck, breathing in the musk of him. He clawed at her back, moaning at her when she wouldn't let him go.

He stared at her, lips parted, face flushed, eyes unfocused and pleading. "Mere. Meredith. Meredith, please," he panted, desperate, whining as she slowly came back to herself and the room stopped spinning. She ran her free hand along the slickness of his pectorals, petting him, leaning down, running her fingers through his damp hair. She stared down into his eyes, deep and searching, gasping when his pleading look brought her tumbling backward two weeks before, when he'd run her through and through and through, when he'd collapsed, gasping, only to stare at her with a similar look of desperation.

She had such power over him…

_You can't do this to me again._

And she'd promised she wouldn't. Except, now, she would. Because he would have to relive it. Just like he'd done with the memory of Mark and Addison in his marital bed.

_Don't ever give up again. Please don't. Please. I know you-- Please, just don't._

The look he gave her now was one of trust, trust that she'd eventually let him finish. Trust. Complete. Undeniable. He was giving her the means to tear him to shreds, letting her do what she wanted. She hadn't realized that she'd missed **that** look too. And that one had been missing far longer than a few days. It'd been missing since the accident with the ferry.

"You only remember the first part," she whispered, millimeters from his lips. Heat wafted from his skin. Warm, short breaths slipped from between his teeth. "Don't you? You don't remember it all yet…"

He blinked, frantic, water dripping from his eyes as his clenching eyelids forced it to spill down over his temples. He coughed, a low, whuffing, desperate sound, and his whole body trembled beneath her. "Wh-- What?" he asked as he squirmed. She felt his length shift inside her, and she gasped as his pelvis rubbed against her sensitized skin.

She twisted the tuft of hair on his chest between her curling fingers. "I love you, and I'm sorry," she said.

He swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbled along his throat. He blinked again.

"Sorry?" he grunted. Confusion and denied release held him prisoner of a flushed stupor. He heaved a breath, and it screamed against his vocal cords with an almost sobbing quality.

"Just remember that when you remember the rest," she said. And then she let him go, sliding up against him just enough to push him over.

For a moment, he stared at her, wide-eyed. His body froze, shuddering, trembling. A moan built from a low, low place in his throat, only to peal out of him in a throaty shout that shook her to the core. He rose up from the bed in a wave-like motion, only to flop back down as he started to pulse into her. He choked, and coughed, and gasped, and then went utterly silent, save for his hitching breathing. She pulled off of him as he went flaccid, and she collapsed next to him while he stared, blinking, unseeing at the ceiling.

For several long moments, they lay there breathing.

"I definitely don't remember that," he said with a tired, sated sigh.

"Tip number four… Was it good?" she asked.

"I think I've lost all motor control," he replied, sounding almost drunk with the haze of after sex.

She grinned. "So, good."

"Mmm-hmmm," he mumbled. His eyes dipped shut. Large, sucking breaths flared his nostrils. "I was going to tell you," he whispered, eventually.

"Tell me?" 

"About Addison," he said as a haunted look tore through his loving gaze. "I was going to tell you over dinner the night she came, you know, part of the whole rules thing… I swear, I wasn't trying to hide her from you forever. I'm sorry."

_So, we need to talk…_

"It was a while ago, Derek." 

"I didn't tell you, and then she showed up," he said, his lips trembling as they pulled his face into a scowl of disgust. "It doesn't matter how long ago it was."

"It was a little bit of a shock," she admitted.

He laughed, low and cruel and self-deprecating. "Why are we still together if I tried with her again?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why the hell did you take me back?" he asked. "I would have run me over with a car or something if I'd even asked…"

She shrugged. "It's what you do when you love somebody."

His gaze softened. "Meredith, I wasn't kidding when I said you saved me. I think… I think it's part of what made me okay enough to get stuck in the thrall of the whole concept of marriage vows again. If you hadn't come along, I would probably still be nauseated by her, reliving the moment over and over when I found her in my bed with Mark... I probably would have signed in a heartbeat. But now, just a day after reacquainting myself with you, it just doesn't bother me so much anymore. I can't believe… Well, I… I don't know what else happened. The rest, past her walking in on us in the waiting room, well, it's blurry. But I can only imagine… I'm so sorry, Meredith. I'm sorry. I'm…"

"We've both done stupid things," Meredith said.

"I love you," he said.

"Like I said," Meredith replied with a chuckle. "Just promise me you'll give me a chance to explain when you remember the rest."

His eyes dipped shut as she leaned in to kiss him. "I promise, Mere," he mumbled, but the words dissolved into her throat like a lost whisper.


	14. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: Just wanted to warn y'all that I will probably not post a part on Sunday. And thanks for all the feedback :)**

* * *

Derek found his mother knitting in the den. Crumpled sleeping bags were strewn all over the floor, and he had to work very hard to dodge them all without tripping. He was still moving slow. He felt like some sort of lumbering beast, leaning against walls and slide, slide, sliding along as he searched with his hands along the center molding for grips. The meclizine was working fine, but tiredness, a general sense of unwellness, and nervousness that the one time he let go would be the one time the floor would start spinning around and trying to make him topple, well, it all combined to make him very cautious. Very cautious, and very slow. He gritted his teeth in frustration as he stepped over another sleeping bag. 

He'd dozed off for a few hours. He'd been vaguely aware of Meredith mentioning something about getting up to take a shower. The sex had been phenomenal, though he felt a little guilty that he hadn't contributed all that much. She hadn't been kidding when she'd whispered sexily that she could drive. But that, that and everything else, it had just been too much, and he'd been down for the count with post-coital, post-accident drowsiness before she'd come back from the shower. She'd since disappeared. Maybe one of his sisters had dragged her out.

He walked slowly over and let himself settle into the seat next to his mother. The two chairs formed a wide letter v in the corner of the room with the lamp table stuffed in the corner serving as the tip. This was his mother's favorite room to spend time in, and usually the first place he looked when he couldn't find her elsewhere. It was airy and cheerful, decorated with a flowery wallpaper and pastel colors. Huge bay windows lined both sides of the room, brightening everything.

She gave him a concerned frown as he sat down, blinking against the glare, but she said nothing. She went back to her looping stitches. Derek watched her for a moment, watched her weathered hands as her still lithe fingers wrapped the yarn around the hooks. The tips of the needles flashed under the sharp lamplight, and for some reason, he found it familiar, but he didn't know why. He'd never cared much about watching her knit before…

_So, when's the knitting start?_

He frowned as the thought blew away into nothingness like dust in a breeze, and he couldn't draw it back again. He tried, tried to pull it back, but the more he tried, the worse he felt, and the more it seemed like he was trying to pull one strand of hair from thousands.

He sighed and ran his thumb and index finger up along the bridge of his nose, pinching at the sudden ache that was developing in the sunlight and under the glare of the piercing lamp. The sudden ache that tried to scold him for remembering, for trying to remember. He swallowed, wishing that the general sense of awfulness he was feeling would just go away. It felt good to not be moving again, and that was depressing since he'd essentially only walked one flight of stairs and two lengths of hallway. He was nearing seventy-two hours since the concussion, and beyond the initial bounds of improvement, there hadn't been much else. And, well, it was miserable. He was miserable. He hoped the fatigue would at least let up, give him a break to actually enjoy this supposed vacation. Headaches, dizziness, nausea, at least there were good prescriptions for those. There wasn't much he could do about feeling tired all the time except sleep more, which made him feel like he was rotting his life away, made him feel like he was soaked in sickness.

"Are you all right?" his mother finally asked.

He blinked his eyes, exaggerated, once, twice, three times, trying to clear some of the haze away, but it stuck to him like the sinewy gauze of a spider's web, clotting on his fingers, billowing from the eves of memory in his head. "I'm tired, Mom. And I'm getting kind of tired of it. That's all," he replied, deciding to spare her the details of his slowly blooming headache.

"I meant about everything else," she said, her lips pursed in a firm line. Everything else. She said it like… like it was nothing more than a forgotten item on a grocery list, or a chore down at number eight on the dry-erase to-do board on the side of the fridge. Buy apples and milk, vacuum the living room, mop, everything else.

Except even with it phrased that way, even with it put so carefully, he felt the jabs of her disappointment, the jabs of her hurt. She didn't need to express them. He just knew they were there. He could see it riding shotgun beside her schooled expressions, her careful, concerned gazes.

"I'm sorry I didn't call," he said as he leaned his head against the high back of the chair.

The needles stopped their twisting and her hands went still. His mother looked up at him and sighed, sighed as if she'd expected him to talk about something else, about, maybe, the state of his life, not the stupid superficiality of not calling. Not calling was the least of his sins. Not calling barely even counted in the heaping pile of everything else.

Everything else was… Mark. And his marriage. And Meredith. And him not knowing what the hell was going on anymore… Him looking at his life and wondering if it really had been him who'd lived it, because now he just didn't know.

Everything else.

"When I found him…" Derek continued. "Mark… When I found him, my best friend, my brother, in my bed with my wife… I just couldn't take the family thing anymore. I had to get out. I had to go find something, and I didn't know what. I…" His voice trailed away as a sharp ache, like someone was slowly jamming one of his mother's knitting needles into his head, persisted and then flared, growing brighter, deadly like phosphorous.

"You can't turn your family on and off at will, Derek," his mother said behind the din of discomfort.

"I know… I just needed…" He twisted his fingers through his hair, pulling, yanking. The pain was a little stab behind the rest of it. Barely noticed. "I don't know what I needed. I just knew everything was wrong, and I had to get out," he said. He leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his face with his hands, worrying his index fingers against his throbbing eye sockets. This wasn't just the bright light… It hadn't been bothering him at all before now.

"And what about when Addison went after you?" his mother asked. "You still couldn't call then? She sent us Christmas presents from the both of you, though I could tell it wasn't your handwriting on the cards." The hurt in her voice was a tangible, cutting thing that slithered deep under his skin.

"I don't…" He shrugged helplessly, not looking up from the soothing dark of his palms. "I don't remember any of that yet, Mom. All I can think of is her walking in on Meredith and I before I had a chance to say anything, and I don't know exactly what happens next, but I've got the outline. I know it ruined something. I know it ruined something, but I don't know what yet, because I don't remember…"

His mother sighed. "Derek…"

"People keep telling me I tried with her again, and I don't know why," Derek said. The back of his throat started to ache, ache as he forced back his upset. He swallowed once, twice, again, trying to stop it all from overflowing. "I look back at everything, and I don't know why. Is there a hole? Am I missing something else? I just… I feel like I'm sitting down to watch a bad movie. I know what's coming, and I don't know why. And I want to hurt the writers… except I'm the writer. What…"

He sighed as the backs of his eyes stabbed him, not with headache, but with all sorts of other unsettling things. They stab, stab, stabbed. He tried to wipe away the mess with his hands as it spilled over onto his cheeks, but it didn't work, and suddenly his torso was heaving on him, not with nausea, but with those same unsettling things, and he was crying, and he couldn't stop. It was wrong. It was all so wrong. He didn't cry. Not like this. Where had this come from? And it just kept coming. It was exhausting, and ugly, and wrong. It made everything hurt more, not less.

And it just kept coming.

At some point, his mother set her knitting project down on the table and got up. At some point, she knelt next to the chair where he cowered, sucking down breaths, trying to stay afloat and failing. At some point, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. At some point, he ended up with his nose stuck firmly in her shoulder, smelling her familiar perfume while she ran a soothing hand up and down his back.

"Derek," she whispered like a gentle wave in his ear. "Hindsight is sometimes a blessing, sometimes a curse. You can't let yourself drown in mistakes you've already made. I know it seems like all of this just happened, like it's all happening now, but it's done. You're with a beautiful, brave, supportive girl, and she's still here. So, you must have done something right. It's not all bad, Derek."

He sucked in a breath, and another, and another, trying to just make it stop. "I realized it… earlier." During sex. "I realized. Meredith made me believe again. And I apparently ran in the completely wrong direction."

Stupid, stupid, so stupid…

He sighed and drew away, dismayed to find that everything was shaking again, and there wasn't much he could do about it but watch it in frustration. He wiped the backs of his palms against his wet cheeks. But as the awful crying subsided, the headache came back. To put it lightly, he was a sick, unhappy mess. He resisted the swell of messy tears as they threatened to burst through again. He swallowed back on it, tasting bile.

"You're looking back on this now, and you know you end up with Meredith, that you're with her currently. It's messing with your perceptions, Derek. You're trying to analyze something that can't be analyzed, not like you're trying to, anyway," his mother said.

She ran her fingers along Derek's shoulder, through his hair in a comforting, familial, motherly way. She hadn't been that person, that comforting mother figure to him for a long, long time. He could remember nights, shortly after his father had died, when he'd been comforted like this. But not since then. He'd made himself not need it.

He sighed.

He had made such a mess of things. And he was still missing so much. He didn't want to remember trying again with Addison. He didn't want to remember leaving the comfort of Meredith to go back to… Living with Addison. Having sex with Addison. Not when all he could think of now when he thought of Addison was Mark. Heaving, sweaty, thrusty, post-coital Mark. It made his stomach turn, though at least thoughts of Meredith took the active, constant throb of it away.

"I love her," he said weakly. "Meredith. I loved her before I remembered. I love her right now. And I know I loved her at the moment Addison came up to us and introduced herself to Meredith. I know it. It's the one damned thing that I know without a doubt right now. Everything else is so confusing. But I know that. I know it, Mom. And I tried again anyway, and I don't know why."

His mother paused, crouching close to him, inches away, eyes glistening in the harsh light. "Do you love Addison?" she asked.

"No," he replied. It didn't even require thought. Not anymore.

"But did you?" she prompted.

"Yes…" he said, trying to think back, back, back. "I don't… I don't know when I stopped. But…"

But he had. At one point, he could honestly say he had. Back at their wedding, their honeymoon, Christmases one, two, three, four, and at least five. By eight, he wasn't so sure. By ten, Addison was a habit and not really much else. It had been a gradual loss. A gradual drifting, like two icebergs going east and west. But he had loved her. At one point.

His mother squeezed his shoulder, grunting as she stood. He felt a pang of guilt for being the weak one sniveling in the chair while she, sixty-five and somewhat arthritic, had been crouching on the floor.

"But you had a marriage license that confirmed it," she said as she straightened herself out. "You had a history that confirmed it. A ring. A family you didn't want to disappoint. You didn't love her anymore, but you had all those things telling you that you should, that if you tried, it might come back."

He sighed. "Mom…"

She looked at him with a hopeless, serious, understanding smile. "You try to follow the rules, Derek. You try to meet the expectations of everyone else around you. You try, but sometimes the rules, the expectations, they just don't make sense for the situation. And that's when you lose your way, that's when you break."

She sat back down in her chair with a sigh. She resumed her knitting with a frown. She pulled out a row and started over. He watched her for a moment.

_My point is, knitting is good for surgical dexterity._ The thought from before came back, just for a moment, and then it flitted off again, an annoying butterfly against the snarl of his headache. He squeezed his eyes shut. Why the hell was he getting bent about knitting? His mother had always knitted. The ache came down on him like the crush of high tide. He groaned and leaned back in his seat, drawing circles on his temples with his fingers. It didn't help. He dropped his hands into his lap and just sat there in silent misery. 

He felt his mother's scrutiny even through closed eyes. There was a shuffle. She left the room for a minute, leaving him in silence, in the painfully bright room, sitting there, sick of being sick. She came back with a glass of water and some ibuprofen.

"Stop trying to pretend you don't have a headache," she said as she grabbed his right hand and dropped some pills into it. She curled the fingers of his left hand around the cool, crystal glass.

He took them without comment, sipping the water as he downed each one. She resumed her knitting again.

He swallowed thickly in the silence that followed. "I'm sorry I didn't call," he said again. 

She turned to him and grinned. "I know. She's very pretty. A distraction, perhaps?"

He opened his eyes, unsurprised to find the room swimming a little before he focused. "Meredith?" he asked.

"Yes," his mother said as she nodded. "Does she want kids?"

He ran his fingers along the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Mom…"

"Sorry, I had to ask," she said. The unspoken, the part about how she was suddenly assuming that this relationship would be long term enough to even consider children, soothed him in a way no other assurance could, soothed him against the roaring ache behind his eyes, the ache at the back of his throat, the subtle spinning of the room that the meclizine couldn't fully obliterate. She winked. "You're my only holdout."

"Addison didn't want any," he said through gritted teeth, replied by rote, by habit. Everyone always asked him why he didn't have any…

"I know, Der," she replied with a frown. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't joke. I know you… Well, I know."

He ran his hands through his hair and leaned back, watching the swirl of the room as he moved his head. "So, you like her?" he asked.

"Der…"

"Yeah?"

"I am your mother," she said, definitive, clipped. "The only expectation I have for you is to be happy. Does she make you happy?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "Then I like her."

He closed his eyes again. The pulse of his blood, just behind his eyes, trying to squeeze them out with each thud, thud, thud was really starting to get to him, really starting to drag him down. He thought about getting up. Thought about going back to bed, back to his dark, quiet room. Steps seemed like a new form of self-torture. He stayed in the chair, reached down, pulled the lever, and forced it back a little so he could stretch out, so he could stop trying to keep his head above his neck through conscious effort.

"You should rest, Der," his mother whispered from far away. "You look awful."

He sighed. And he probably looked about ten times better than he felt. He listened to her as she took up her knitting again. The needles clinked when they hit each other from time to time. Her quiet breathing soothed him. The pounding headache throbbed into the background, and, somewhere along the way, somewhere between a stitch and a breath, he plunged into dreaming.

_Every guy I meet turns out to be married…_


	15. Chapter 14

Meredith was in a daze. She'd spent the morning beset by Derek's nieces and nephews. They'd cajoled her into playing twister. And hide and seek. And tag. And all sorts of other things. She hadn't gotten this much exercise in a long, long time. She could almost remember everyone's names… Almost. There were a couple of the littler ones whose names still escaped her, since they didn't talk much to begin with.

It seemed as though the entire Shepherd population below age twelve had realized the chink in her armor. She, unlike Derek's sisters and the rest of his family, couldn't say no to sucked thumbs and pouty faces. And, like little sharks, they'd gone in for the kill.

She'd just lost a game of hide-and-seek and had finally managed to extricate herself, only to get yanked into another family thing moments later. A family kitchen thing.

"Meredith!" Sarah waved a batter-covered spatula haphazardly in the air as Meredith wandered out into the kitchen for a glass of water. "Come help me with this."

Meredith froze and stared. Sarah stood over the counter. Cookie sheets were everywhere. Bowls. Batter. Chocolate chips. Stuff. Stuff that she usually relegated all to the category 'Izzie things'. As such, 'Izzie things' often remained an unidentified curiosity, because Meredith really just didn't care much.

Sarah was a tall and spindly woman. Her dark hair was piled high atop her head in a messy ponytail, half of it looped back under into a faux bun, half of it spilling down the back of her neck in a sloppy waterfall, but it was a controlled sort of messy, the kind that was styled to look that way, not the kind that arrived from lack of caring. Her hair was dark enough that Meredith couldn't tell if it was black or brown, but it was too light to be labeled definitively as midnight. Sarah wore an apron several sizes too big for her, making her lithe, probably size zero figure into something that seemed even more bony and insignificant. Her face was sharp and pointed, pretty, like an elongated, feminine version of Derek. Where Derek had a nice chin with a subtle cleft, Sarah's tapered to a point. Her face was thinner, more symmetrical, more… manicured. To be honest, she didn't look at all like she fit there behind the counter. She had an Addison vibe about her. Too pretty, too elegant to be in love with baking cookies in a dirty, oversized apron.

"I…" Meredith said, pausing as Sarah licked a spoon in a very not elegant way, and her manicured face collapsed into unadulterated manicured bliss. "I don't bake," she finished, the words weak and faint.

Sarah smacked her lips. Her tongue briefly appeared as she scraped dough off the roof of her mouth. She moaned at the taste, but the sound built into words without pause. "Oh, come on," she said. "You can cut apart somebody's brain, but you can't read a recipe? I don't buy it."

Meredith opened her mouth and then closed it as Sarah stared her down, making her feel like an insignificant drip despite the fact that, while Sarah was several inches taller, she probably weighed pounds less. Meredith found herself looking down at the bowl nearest to her. There was a mess of unmixed junk in it. Chocolate chips. Butter. Eggs. Stuff. Izzie things. She'd been roped in.

"Uh…" she muttered as her hand snaked down to grip the long wooden handle of the spoon that waited there for her. What are you doing, hand, she wanted to ask, even as her fingers flexed around the grip. She didn't bake. She… This was Izzie stuff!

"Just stir it," Sarah prodded with a smile. "The spoon won't bite."

"Okay." Meredith started to work the batter. She'd really only wanted a glass of water…

"So," Sarah began without precursor. "I woke up to the most interesting sound…"

The spoon slipped from her grip as it caught on a pile of batter and chips. Meredith's hand flung outward, and she grunted as a blush ran like fire up from her chest to her cheeks and everywhere in between. "Sorry," she said as she captured the spoon again.

Sarah stared at her.

"We were trying to be quiet…" Meredith found herself babbling. "Well, I was, at least. I don't know if Derek cares. He didn't seem to think much modesty was required on the plane trip over when he was suggesting… Er. I mean." She stirred, and stirred, and stirred. Her hand started to hurt as she ground into the batter like it was her own personal vendetta against all things batter-like and kitcheny. "You know, you really should just shut me up," she continued, barely taking a breath. "You probably don't want to hear about your brother and his depraved, porny thoughts. And by depraved and porny," she said, stirring harder. "I mean totally G-rated and fluffy and not going anywhere near my pants. And by pants, I mean…" Don't mention tip number four. Don't think about Cosmo. Don't picture-- "Um. Shoes? Why does nobody shut me up when I babble?" 

"Meredith," Sarah interrupted her with a laugh. "Take a breath."

The spoon slipped away. She forced herself to stop. "Sorry," she muttered as she closed her eyes and internally counted to ten. No, twenty. Maybe twenty-five. She was acting like a complete fool… Bimbo slutty homewrecker, now, maybe. She pictured neutral Sarah clickity clacking along the New York streets in gorgeous, two-hundred-dollar stilettos, approaching Nancy's negative corner with pomp and elegance. It really just wasn't any fair.

But Sarah only laughed again. It was a bright, twinkly-sounding thing, not condescending at all. "Trust me," Sarah said. "With Mark in the family, well, essentially in the family, we're really just a pack of desensitized letches at heart. I doubt anybody cared. And, honey, if that was you two trying to be quiet, I really, really pity your neighbors." 

"My roommates complain a lot," Meredith replied. 

"You have roommates?" 

"Yes. I rent the other bedrooms in my house."

Sarah raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Oh?" 

"Yeah," Meredith said. "Other interns." She wondered why Sarah sounded so surprised by all this. Interns were notoriously poor. Of course they'd shack up together. 

"Must be a busy house."

"Yeah. With four doctors living there, somebody is always coming or going." 

"I can imagine," Sarah said.

"So, why isn't Mark here?" Meredith asked.

The sculpted eyebrow went up again. "Pardon?"

"Well, you said Mark was practically family. Why isn't he here?" 

"Well," Sarah began, suddenly hesitant. A bluster of emotions slipped across her face. Meredith thought she could pick out, at the very least, sadness. Sarah arrived at wherever her thoughts were taking her, her lips parted, and a wordless syllable came out, almost like um, but not really. She finally shrugged and said, "Mom didn't invite him this year."

"Because of Derek?" Meredith asked.

Sarah gave her a smile that was definitely sad. "Mom didn't think he'd come if he thought Mark would be here." 

Meredith frowned at that. Why would these people have such a hard time choosing their brother by blood over Mark? "You sound like you miss him…" Meredith said.

"We all do. He's… Well, he's Mark. I know he did a stupid thing with Addison… but… He's family. He grew up with us as family. Since before Dad died. You don't push away your family just because they do stupid things."

Meredith swallowed. "I can't really relate," she said flatly. She kept stirring when Sarah nodded mutely and didn't reply. The other woman looked disturbed, but she didn't say anything, didn't ask, and Meredith found herself grateful to the point that the relief made her grip fail. The spoon slipped away again.

She glanced down at the counter, noticing for the first time the stained, slightly crumpled index card caught underneath the foot of the mixing bowl. She leaned forward and read the loopy, curling handwriting. Maybe this was some super secret family recipe…

"Hey," she said as her eyes halted on line seven. "This says to use an electric beater."

And then she noticed the electric beater, sitting on the counter just behind Sarah, gleaming, unused.

Sarah grinned. "Yes, but how else was I going to rope you into chatting? You're very darty…" 

"I don't dart," Meredith said with a snort. "I… walk fast."

A burble of laughter pealed between the two of them, and Meredith resumed stirring just for the hell of it. "Also known as darting," Sarah confirmed.

"I have the strangest suspicion I've been had," Meredith muttered.

Sarah moved her own bowl next to one of the waiting cookie sheets and started plopping little quarter-sized dollops of batter down, evenly spaced. Every other other dollop ended up in her mouth, but Meredith supposed that was one of the benefits to being the baker. Discretionary dessert robbery. 

"Listen, Mere," Sarah said after a particularly large robbery. She paused to lick her fingers. "Mere is okay right?"

Meredith nodded. "Yeah." 

"I mostly just wanted to tell you to not worry about Nancy," Sarah said. "She's been acting weird for weeks now. Kathy and I are trying to pry it out of her, but, well, the point is, it's not you."

Meredith sighed. "Thanks. I just wish she would leave Derek alone. He doesn't need this right now."

Sarah nodded sympathetically. She put her cookie sheet into the oven and started mixing up another batch.

The two of them worked, and worked, and shortly after, Meredith's first batch had been committed to its very own cookie sheet and subsequent dessert robbery, though Meredith had limited herself to every other other other dollop. She wondered if it was petty that she felt slightly smug that she was more resistant to temptation than perfect, elegant Sarah. It probably was, but she couldn't help it.

Meredith sighed against the smooth, sugary taste of fresh cookie dough. Her eyes dripped open from the bliss just in time to see Ellen wander in from the hall. "Oh," Ellen said, honeyed and deep as she sighed and let a lithe hand fall against her chest in a swooning gesture. "It smells so good in here."

"I'm baking up a couple batches for an afternoon snack," Sarah explained. She held out her spatula. A healthy glob of batter stuck on to the tip.

Ellen shook her head. "I'll have one when they're cooled." She turned to scrutinize Meredith. 

"I'm stirring," Meredith said, finding herself smiling and not really knowing why. This was actually kind of fun… "Not baking."

Ellen laughed. She settled down onto a chair at the kitchen table with a weary sigh, and the smile on her face faded as she ran her hands up over her face.

"What's up, Mom?" Sarah asked.

"I'm worried about Der," she said. "He's sleeping in the den right now. Should he still be this tired? This… incapacitated?" 

Meredith frowned and focused on the batter in the bowl. Chips swirled under the tip of the spoon. Her fingers flexed as she dragged the spoon through the mixture, around and around, almost hypnotically.

"I don't know, Mom," Sarah replied. "Concussion symptoms should generally go away within three days or so, which we're just shy of. But if he was out for twenty odd minutes… Well, that, on top of him being stressed out about his amnesia, on top of the motorcycle accident and the past concussion…" Sarah wiped her hands on one of the kitchen towels and went to sit with Ellen. "I'm not surprised he's really suffering… He's the specialist, though. Maybe we should ask him? I haven't done concussions since I was an intern."

Ellen frowned. She picked up one of the placemats and started worrying at it with her fingers. "I don't think he's being entirely honest about how bad he's feeling. I'm not sure he would be a good person to ask."

Sarah and Ellen both looked at Meredith. So focused on the batter, it took her a moment to realize that the conversation had stopped, and they were both looking at her. She stopped her stirring cold and swallowed. They cared about what she thought?

"Um," Meredith stuttered. "Well, I agree. With Sarah. Plus, especially with his history, he's very likely to develop PCS, which might make symptoms persist a lot longer."

Ellen looked confused. "PCS?" 

"Er… Sorry," Meredith said. "Post concussion syndrome. There's no real treatment for it beyond giving prescriptions to address the symptoms." 

"How long does that last?" 

Meredith shrugged. "It can be long term. Up to a year."

She had really hoped that Derek would escape the problems of post concussion syndrome, but the more she thought about it, the more worried she became. She'd thought, though obviously still sick, he'd been a lot better that morning. Then again, he'd been awake for all of, what, an hour or two, before he'd gone back to sleep? And, despite his obvious arousal, he hadn't really been all that enthusiastic about having sex until she'd pretty much jumped him. He was an otherwise healthy, fit adult. The prolonged exhaustion was worrying.

"It could also be a pituitary imbalance…" Meredith mused. "Or a bleed that got missed earlier. Or any number of other things that are slow to show up after a head injury…"

Ellen gave up on the placemat and clutched the edge of the table. Her fingers whitened. "Should we take him back to the hospital?" 

"Well," Meredith said. She gave up on the stirring and sat down at the table with Sarah and Ellen. "Unless he starts having really bad, persistent headaches, seizures, or acts confused, I think it's safe to just wait until he goes back to get his stitches out on Thursday."

Ellen's frown deepened. "He had a headache. I had to make him take ibuprofen."

Sarah reached across the table and rubbed her mother's hands. "We'll just have to keep a closer eye on him," she said, soothing, low, almost mothering to the mother. "I'll tell Kathy, Nance, and Nat. Don't worry."

Meredith swallowed. Don't worry. Hah. She'd been concerned that the hospital had let him go too soon. She'd given him the prescription for dizziness in an attempt to help. But what if she'd missed something else?

No, she decided. No, it was probably just PCS.

For some reason, despite her forced certainty, a quivery, panicky, flippity flop of nerves bundled into her stomach. She swallowed again and stood. "You said he was in the den?" she asked, suddenly overwhelmed with the intense need to make sure with her own eyes that everything was fine.

"Yes, dear," Ellen replied.

His family seemed to be relying on her medical advice. Hers. And she wasn't even out of her internship yet. The prospect of a misdiagnosis, which interns often made, was terrifying. She tried not to flinch as a twisting flash of Derek naked on the gurney, throwing up, unable to help himself, tore across her mind's eye. Her body twitched forward in a panicked, tripping stride, but Sarah grabbed her arm before she could make it any farther.

"Oh, hey," Sarah said. "Can you take the overflow out to the trashcan please since you're up? It's just out the back door at the foot of the deck." Sarah pointed to the bag full of 'Izzie thing' remnants and other trash that sat by the wide glass doors.

No, Meredith wanted to say. She wanted to go to the den. "Sure," she said.

She darted outside with the bag in hand, running, trying not to let her panicking make her slip onto her ass and twist or break something. She dropped the bag into the trashcan sort of like a drive-by gunman tossing his piece and fleeing from the cops. She skipped back up the steps of the deck, taking them two at a time, only to skid to a stop at the top.

Nancy sat at the far corner of the deck in a sliding rocker chair. She had her face in her hands. Her body trembled, and little hiccupping sobs were audible.

Meredith looked back at the door to the house. She hop, hop, hopped a little forward on her feet, but something made her stay, made her stay and ask, "Is something wrong?"

Nancy looked up and glared. Her face was red and puffy, and her cheeks were covered with the damp film of smeared tears. "What do you care?" she snapped, her voice low, throaty, and hollow.

"I…" Meredith began, and then she thought better of it. "Never mind."

She took three more steps toward the door, only to halt again as something visceral pulled on her reins. "You know, Nancy," she said as she slammed to a stop and turned to face her opponent. "I don't know what your problem is. But if you could stop taking it out on Derek and me… If you could do that… Well, that would be nice."

There. She'd said it.

"Great," Nancy said with a bitter laugh. "Sure." She crossed her arms and looked away in silent dismissal.

Meredith sighed and walked back inside.

She burst into the den and found Derek there, breathing softly, tipped back in one of the lazy boys in the corner of the room. For a moment, she paused, watching him. Sunlight streamed down from the windows, washing his features out, accenting the dark circles under his eyes. His lips were parted, and he was breathing deeply through his mouth. His skin, pale, looked a little bloodless in the harsh daylight, especially against the black swath of stubble that he hadn't shaved away in three days, enough to almost be the beginnings of a real beard.

She walked over and collapsed next to him, the need to reassure herself more overwhelming than her desire to let him rest. There was just enough room in the chair. He flinched as she landed against him, but there was a considerable delay between the jerk that said she'd woken him up and the moment his eyelids slid open.

"Hey," she whispered as she lay along his length on her side, propping her face up with one hand. She rubbed the palm of her other hand across the flat plane of his stomach. His warmth seeped through the fabric of his ratty t-shirt and into her fingertips.

A bass, throaty noise, possibly a groan, wriggled up from his chest. He swallowed. "Meredith," he said, a whisper in return, groggy, not all awake. He squinted at her and yawned like some sort of bear disturbed from hibernation.

She smiled. She ran her fingers along his shoulder, his side, his arm, his leg, reassuring herself that he was fine. And he did appear to be fine. He did. Tired, yes. But fine. His eyelids started to dip shut again.

"Sorry," she said. "You can go back to sleep if you want." 

His eyes snapped open and he blinked frantically. "No," he said. He reached up and scrubbed at his face.

"So," she said with a grin as he shifted a little so he was facing her. "I stirred cookie batter."

He stared at her with muted curiosity. "What?" 

"In the kitchen. I did a kitcheny thing," she clarified. 

"How'd they convince you?" 

"Lies. Told me it needed to be stirred when, in fact, your mother owns a very nice electric beater."

He chuckled. "Sarah, right?"

"Yeah," she said.

He smiled at her, relaxed, still not all awake, sort of like he was drifting there in a drugged doze. His blinks came with glacial slowness. She contented herself to lie there with him for a moment, trying to ignore the twisting pangs she felt at seeing how tired he really was. She reached out and rubbed a palm against his beard. He leaned into it with a listless sigh.

"Do you think it's the meclizine that's making you this sleepy?" she asked.

He gave her a helpless look. "No idea. I like having the floor stay where it is, though. So, I'll take my chances." He sounded woefully depressed about it. She curled up against him, resting her head against his chest under the crook of his chin.

"I'm sorry you're feeling so bad," she said. "I'm awful at the sick thing. I'm sorry."

His arms tightened around her, but he didn't comment.

She splayed her fingers against his hip, listened as his breathing evened out. She thought he might be asleep again, but she was afraid to ask for fear of waking him if he was. She really was bad at the sick thing. She didn't know what else to do for him. He was so down. And his mother was right. He did seem nearly incapacitated…

_Derek Shepherd! Are you awake? Do you know where you are?_

She flinched against him at the memory.

"What?" he asked. Apparently not sleeping, then. Or her sudden jerk had woken him. Either way, it made her feel bad. Bad to be dumping this on him right now.

"It's nothing." She sniffed.

He sighed, again a lifeless, listless sound. "Mere…"

With just that one exhausted word, he broke through any further refusals she would have made. She knew he didn't have the energy to force it out of her, but she also knew from his tone that he'd try. She clutched at his shirt. "Tell me about when you crashed your bike," she whispered.

He swallowed and shifted her out from underneath his chin. He stared, his eyes hooded with discomfort. "Why do you want to know?" he asked. She felt the muscles of his arms stiffen. 

"I'm not allergic to anything," she babbled. "I had my tonsils out when I was nine. My family seems to be rife with heart disease. And I got my appendix removed recently, but you should remember that at some point on your own."

He frowned. "What's this about, Mere?"

She stared at him as tears started to make her vision fuzzy. "I couldn't fill out the forms. When they wheeled you in. I couldn't… And you were so sick, and I wanted to help, but I didn't know anything…"

He blinked once, twice. Whatever resistance he'd been mounting fell away, but the awful look on his face made her regret badgering it out of him. Not a happy memory. Not a happy memory at all, from the way his features shifted into angst and the rest of his muscles tightened up. But then, what should she have expected, if it was an accident bad enough to make him scared of motorcycles? People who rode motorcycles already had a certain level of daring. It was hard to take that away.

She rubbed his arms, hoping to comfort him.

"I was a second year resident," he said after a long, agonized pause. His tone had fallen into clinical doctor speak, and it sort of scared her. "I went out on my bike in the rain when I shouldn't have. Mark was drunk and needed somebody to pick him up. Addi had her car, mine was in the shop. So, I took my Harley. I hydroplaned and skidded into a telephone pole. I was lying on the pavement for a good thirty minutes before somebody bothered to call the paramedics."

She gasped. "Thirty minutes? In New York?"

He shrugged, just a little helpless motion. "It was dark and cold and raining, and it wasn't the greatest neighborhood. My rib punctured a lung when I flipped over the bike and slammed into the curb, apparently, though I don't remember the landing. I just remember lying there trying to breathe."

The silence after his recount was like a sack of weights, pressing down on her chest, crushing, crushing. She wanted to cry, and was pressing herself as close to him as she could manage before she realized it. He held her, though he didn't offer her any sort of comfort. He seemed… disquieted. She regretted ever asking.

"I didn't know," she whispered. 

He swallowed. "I don't like to talk about it."

"You don't seem to have the best luck with moving vehicles," she said after another long pause where they lay there curled in silence.

He chuckled. Just a little, brief, gruff thing, but she was happy she'd managed to interject some levity. "Yeah, well, a motorcycle was just asking for it, really…" he said. "I'm not sure that counts. Sulfa drugs, by the way."

"Allergic?" 

"Yeah."

"Good to know…" she said. "You know, for future outings. Maybe I should drive from now on."

He scowled at her, but his eyes twinkled. "Very funny."

She leaned forward, already close enough to him that the motion was a bare wisp, and she met his lips with her own. His hand curled and tightened just over her waist. She breathed him in, searching, wanting. His eyes slipped shut, and for the moments until she needed to breathe again, bliss fell over her. She moaned, a brief, squeaky sound that he sucked away before it grew into something fuller. The hand over her side roamed lower.

They broke apart moments later, only their soft panting interrupting the peace between them.

"Okay, Derek?" she said with a breathless chuckle as the skin on her chin started to sting. "I know you feel like crap and all. But the beard has got to go."

He frowned, though his face still betrayed some level of mirth. He reached up and felt the stubble swathing his face. "Oh, that is getting kind of bad," he admitted. "Sorry."

They lay there for another few minutes, just relaxing. Meredith almost felt tired herself, victim of the sudden lack of mobility and the soothing motions of his warm hands against her. The smell of chocolate chip cookies wafted in slowly, building, building. The sunlight filtering in from the window fell against her skin, soaking her with warmth, drowning her in a feeling of sloth. She wanted to lie there forever in the space next to his soft breathing.

But then his breathing hitched. His relaxed expression tightened. He frowned, and his grip around her arm clenched to an almost painful degree. 

"What is it?" she asked.

He blinked. "You were knitting at a bar," he said abruptly. 

"Um," she said, swallowing. What? "Yes, I did have a knitting phase." 

"At a bar?"

She shrugged. "It was an exercise in finding alternatives."

He squinted, his expression belying his confusion. "Was that before Christmas?" he asked, his stare distant, looking through her, not at her.

She frowned. "No…"

The blood drained from his face. "Oh," he said. He blinked, swallowed, stilled, and went very, very quiet. 

"Derek?" she prodded. "More memories?"

He ignored her question, and before she realized it, he was struggling, moving, grunting, trying to get up. He let the chair down and half-stumbled to a standing position. He started tilting to the right as his balance left him bereft, and she snaked her arms around his waist as soon as she could manage to stand.

"Where do you want to go?" she asked, worry twisting her in knots as he just stood there, panting. It wasn't an out of breath sort of panting. It was a distressed, emotional panting. Each one was racked with a tiny bluster of vocalization, almost sobbing, but far, far too quiet to be classified as such.

He swallowed. "I'm tired, Mere," he whispered, his voice… haunted, miserable. 

"Okay," she said, trying desperately not to push him, not to prod him, not to yell at him to explain. Something was definitely going on. "To bed then?"

He stiffened and pulled away, shuffling, almost tripping, but managing. "I can do it," he snapped.

He made a long, slow journey back up to the bedroom. She followed him, worried that he was going to fall over, but he wouldn't let her help whenever she got close. He made no comment about her trailing a few steps behind, at least, but from the look on his face, he was concentrating mostly on not collapsing.

He made it to the bedroom, shakily dodging sisters and kids and mother. Meredith frowned and shook her head at all the concerned looks she was getting. When he finally collapsed into bed and closed his eyes, she felt like they'd just finished a marathon. 

"Derek?" she asked in the darkness. 

"I'm tired, Mere," he whispered, almost a sob, almost but not quite. He rolled onto his side and sighed a heaving, weighted, distressed sigh.

Meredith didn't know what to do. "Do you want company?"

The word that followed almost killed her.

"No."

She swallowed thickly and backed away. "Sorry," she said.

He didn't answer as she forced herself back out of the bedroom.


	16. Chapter 15A

Meredith picked at the broccoli dish with the tines of her fork, stirring it around on her plate, staring as the bustle of conversation jumped around her. He didn't want company. Just what exactly did that mean? Did it mean he was mad at her? Or was it just a recharging thing... Everyone needed to be alone now and then, and Derek had been picked at and prodded and miserable for three days. 

His place setting, which had been set at the table next to hers, was empty. Natalie had come down earlier, a frown creasing the features of her face as she shrugged. "I just poked my head in. He's asleep, I think," she'd said as she'd sat down. 

Dinner had proceeded, but Meredith couldn't eat. The food was probably wonderful. It probably was. But it looked... Tasteless. Bleached of color. She could smell it, warm and moist and sharp and good, and it should have made her stomach rumble, but it did nothing for her. It cloyed at the back of her throat, making her slightly nauseated. 

The kids sat out in the kitchen at the breakfast table. She could hear them clattering about and laughing, fighting and eating and being kids in general, but it sounded... distant. Like a television that had been left on at low volume. Everything seemed displaced from her, displaced and far away. 

She shoved a broccoli piece over into her slice of chicken and then scooted it back toward the edge of the plate, watching in abject fascination as her fork ground the poor, soggy vegetable to shreds the more she worried at it. A lump formed in her throat. She swallowed against it. 

It'd been six hours. Six hours since he'd gone up to bed. And he hadn't come down at all. 

He'd had a memory. Some memory. Something that had spooked him, or upset him, or something. She couldn't tell exactly what, but she knew. She knew he'd remembered something. Knitting. Why would knitting spook him? It was... It was knitting, for crying out loud. It made no sense, which was the worst part of it. She'd known that him slowly remembering things would be a bumpy ride, especially after Addison's return came into his mental picture, but... It hurt to be pushed away.

She sighed. Six hours. Screw it. She was pretty sure the sick thing entailed enduring stupid things like this. She could do it.

"I'm going to go check on him," she said, pushing her chair back abruptly as she plinked her fork down onto her plate. Everyone looked up. Ellen frowned at her, but it was a sympathetic sort of look. Meredith left before anyone could say anything. 

"Derek?" she whispered as she pushed through the door and into the dark bedroom. He lay on his side in the same position she'd left him in. "Look, I know you said you wanted to be alone, but I can't stand it anymore. Are you all right?"

As she got closer, she noticed how hunched and tight his posture was. Closer still, and she realized his whole body was shivering with the barest hint of tremors. She darted around to his side of the bed. He was awake, staring dully ahead with the most destroyed look she'd ever seen on him, destroyed and crushed and... She couldn't even begin to describe the dark, distant pain that hovered in his eyes. He clutched the pillow against his chest and stared. He didn't even acknowledge her as she lowered herself down onto the floor so that she was eye-level with him.

She ran a hand along his shoulder. "Derek?"

The thick suffering in the air strangled her bit by bit as she watched him, and he still didn't say a word. The moments passed with all the speed of a funeral procession, and she sat with him, silent, trying to figure out what to do. Each second swelled and burst in her mind with ugly, twisting thoughts. A panicky feeling began to settle in the longer he kept quiet, panicky like someone had dipped a cold rod down her throat and let it sit there, burning her esophagus, freezing in her stomach. 

Not being able to speak... that was bad. It could mean he really did have a worsening bleed. What with his lack of improvement, his headache earlier... The low thrum of fear became a jabbing spike through her shoulder blades.

"Derek, you can talk, right?" she asked, biting back on the lump in her throat. "At least let me know you can speak right now, and that you're just choosing not to. It's okay if you don't want to talk. I'll leave you alone. I swear. I just need--" Her voice cut off as a swell of grief overwhelmed her.

She reached up with a shaking hand and flipped the lamp on to get a better look at him. He blinked and hissed, rolling his face into the pillow to blot out the light. A reaction. That was good. She ran a hand through his hair, trying to soothe him. "Can you look up for a minute? I just want to check your eyes. I'll turn the light off as soon as I see."

Another moment passed. "I'm going to call an ambulance if you don't look up. Because you're terrifying me here, Derek. Come on. Please, just look at me. Please."

"It hurts," he said, his voice muffled by the pillow. The throb of panic slowed a little at the sound of his tortured whisper. It was something, at least. He could talk.

"What hurts? Your head? The light?" she asked. She started pushing on his shoulder, trying to force him to roll back over. The tremors were starting to concern her a lot more than they had originally. "Roll over, Derek," she commanded when he wouldn't budge.

He sighed with a heaving, sobbing sound and turned slowly. He squinted. His eyes tore up. She hated to do it, but she reached down and pried his eyelid back with her thumb. He jerked in surprise, but didn't resist at all, just let her do it, shaky arms and hands bent back and clutched away from his chest like he didn't exactly know what to do with them. 

His pupil was constricted against the light like it should be. She checked the other one. Same. "Follow?" she said as she pulled her index finger away from his face and dragged it across his field of view to the left and to the right in a slow sweep. Through squinted, tearing eyes, he managed. It was concerning that he was still this sensitive to lights, but that was a common effect of post concussion syndrome.

She turned the lamp off. "You want to tell me yet, or do you want me to go?" she said. 

She grunted as she let herself fall back onto the floor in relief, convinced that whatever this was, it had more to do with him being overwhelmed than some part of his head injury being exacerbated. He'd already shown that he was not really well equipped to deal with a bombardment of memories right now. Just the few months of happy memories had had him dropping to the floor. And who knew what he'd remembered. Hell, he could have remembered the ferry stuff. His memories weren't necessarily returning chronologically, which, in and of itself, had to be horrible and confusing for him, what with so much change in the past year. This had to be just a bad reaction. Right. A bad reaction. She nodded to herself, noticing belatedly that she was running her hand worriedly up and down his side.

He swallowed. "You gave me your dog."

"Yeah," she said, trying not to show her surprise at the random subject. He was talking. She would be happy with that. She was willing to work with anything, just as long as he was talking.

He sucked in a breath, let loose a little whuffing sound that could have been a laugh. "He ate Addison's shoes."

"Okay..."

"The knitting. That was after..."

"After Doc?" Meredith asked. "Yeah, Derek. What's going on?" She resisted the urge to bombard him with any of the other five thousand questions rumbling tumbling through her mind. He was trying to work something out, something... He was confused, and overwhelmed, and trying to work something out. She had to let him drive the conversational bus, she convinced herself.

"Steve..." he whispered, his gaze drifting. "When was... That was before?"

"Who?" she asked. "Before what?"

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say. Derek rolled onto his stomach, started crawling away from her, sliding toward the pillows on her side of the bed, his fingers scrabbling against the sheets slowly, weakly. He didn't get much traction, didn't shift very much. It made him look helpless and sick and wrong, and the worry she'd buried away plunged back into her full awareness, deep down like the roiling of bad digestion. This was not normal. This was not--

"I broke it," he said, panting. "It's what I broke."

"Broke what?" she asked. She stood and sat on the space of the bed that he'd abandoned. The mattress dipped, and his side touched her knee. He lay diagonally across the bed, flat on his stomach, sprawled awkwardly, like he'd just given up on moving, though his breathing indicated he'd spent enough energy to climb a small mountain. His torso hitched, and he stayed there, like he couldn't move, like he'd been given a good knock and was dazed or something. She could almost picture the cartoon stars circling lazily overhead.

Fear throbbed. 

"You. Me," he whispered. "Everything... Why did...?"

"Derek, stop," she said, biting back on her own shakiness. She forced him onto his back. He looked up at her, trembling. She splayed her fingers against the sides of his cheeks and leaned in so she was inches away, hovering in intimate territory. "Just stop. Look at me. Focus."

For a moment, she thought she'd pulled him out of his strange stupor. He stared at her, silent, unmoving, and under the layer of confusion that pinched his features, she was absolutely certain he'd understood her. But then he blinked, and he was off somewhere else again. "The bomb... Was that before Christmas?"

"No, after."

"The knitting?"

"After the bomb."

"The closet... When?"

"Derek, what closet?" she asked, resisting the urge to shake him, to yell at him. He licked his lips, blinked. "What are you talking about?" she pleaded. Anything to get him to make sense... Fear yanked at her, made her blink against it and breathe hard. The more she tried to tell herself he was just overwhelmed, the more wrong it all felt. 

"I'm sorry," he moaned. "I'm sorry. I-"

She squeezed his shoulders. "Derek, slow down," she said. "Okay? Slow down and breathe."

He shook his head in a shivery, minute motion. "I can't."

"You can," she said. "Take a breath. Just breathe. I know this is overwhelming..."

His loose, not-all-there haze darkened into a bitter, hating scowl. "You have no idea how this feels," he snapped. He breathed in. As he exhaled, it turned into a warbling sound that died off when he ran out of air. He shook like he was clenching all his muscles too tightly, but it faded back into the dull, quivery tremors from before.

"I'm trying to understand, Derek," she said. "You're the one who told me to go away."

"They touched you," he snarled. "I can see that man. All of them." The words were ugly, coming deep down from the base of his throat, dark and needing and wrought with a shivery, emotional, twisting sort of pitch. "Touching you. And I can't... I can't..."

"Derek, the only one touching me anymore is you," she said, trying to reassure him. "All of that was months ago. We weren't together then."

Her thoughts raced. He was all over the map. All over it. If he was remembering fragments all out of order like this all at once... She could only imagine... She rubbed his chest, tried to soothe him, tried to calm him down. Overwhelmed. He was just overwhelmed, she repeated to herself, like a chorus. I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine. Just like that. How often had she done that when it was flat out wrong, though?

"I know," he blinked. "I know I shouldn't..." he began, but then his words drifted away as he swallowed, and his thoughts jumped the tracks. Again. He blanked for a moment and his features went slack, his expression distant, and then he jerked. His face twisted with the dark hint of another memory. "George... After Christmas?"

"What about George?" Meredith said. "Why do you keep asking about Christmas?"

"Because that's the very last plausible moment that any of this should have happened," he snapped, vehement, grating, but then his volume dipped back into something low, breathy, and lost. "I... I..."

"What?"

"It's when I finally admitted... And I didn't. Didn't... Why?"

"You're not making any sense, Derek."

"There was a bomb, and I didn't... Didn't." He stopped then. Just ceased. He let loose a curdled, breaking moan and started to curl inward into a fetal position. Her chorus that tried to convince her he was just overwhelmed slowly melted in the low, threatening singsong of wrong, wrong, wrong. Something was wrong...

"Hey," she whispered as she placed her hand on his shoulder. His body felt like a tuning fork that'd been hit recently. It wasn't just his hands. Everything was trembling. Everything.

"Meredith," he whispered, a sigh, like she was the last dreg of water in a desert, like he suddenly recognized her in the middle of all the confusion. Like she was a balm, a relief. It tore her up inside.

"I'm here," she said.

"I think," he said, his breath hitching as he spoke into his knees. "I think there's something wrong with me." It was a quiet, tortured, terrified whisper.

Meredith swallowed. "It's just PCS, Derek. And you're overwhelmed," she said. Wrong, wrong, wrong, the chorus taunted.

"My headaches shouldn't be getting worse," he whispered. "And this..." He held up his trembling hands. They jerked and shivered in the most pronounced loss of motor control she'd seen since he'd woken up in the hospital. "Not PCS," he said. "I feel wrong, Mere. Something's broken."

For a minute, she couldn't speak, and all the air left her. Derek. Neurosurgeon. If he was saying something was wrong... He looked at her, pleading, eyes flaring wide with fear. Silence writhed in the space between them. Wrong, wrong, wrong. A snake of panic coiled in her stomach, kicking up a disturbed swarm of butterflies as it twisted and twined. 

"Okay," she said. Butterfly wings flicked up against the inside of her torso. Flit, flit, flit. Now was not the time to be sick, she told herself. "We'll go to the hospital. Can you sit up?"

He struggled to sit up. 

"Put your arm over my shoulder," she commanded when he sobbed in frustration. "We'll go slow."

By the time they were standing, he was in bad, bad shape. Panting, shaking. "I feel sick," he groaned, but she pushed them onward, half driven by her own panic, half driven by sheer will. Nausea... Nausea was another sign of hematoma, but it could be PCS... It could be... Her thoughts froze. 

She didn't know. She just didn't know. She was an intern. She wasn't prepared for this. And the fact that it was Derek... Derek. The fact that it was him and not some random patient she'd just met that day, it made all her rationality, any sort of clinical analysis, completely out of the question. She couldn't put herself in a box for this, couldn't keep her emotions out of things. She didn't know, and it was terrifying in a mortally wounding sort of way. The only thing she did know was that they had to get to the ER. 

They stumbled fumbled down the stairs slowly. Everyone was in the living room drinking after-dinner coffee, chatting jovially. The flow of words stopped like a boggle bowl rolling to a halt as Meredith came down the steps with Derek. She struggled to breathe under his weight. Even that first morning he'd been home and they'd climbed the steps to the bedroom despite his dizziness, he'd helped her more than he was helping her now.

She swallowed.

"We need to go to the ER," she said at Derek's staring family as she and Derek struggled to the foot of the stairs. "Now."   



	17. Chapter 15B

Derek turned toward her when they stopped, almost like he was hugging her. He leaned silently against her, almost curling over her shoulder. Little noises of distress fell from his lips with each shortened breath, buffeting her neck. She swayed with the weight of him, but locked her joints and bore with it. He wasn't looking at his family at all, and that scared her even more.

For a moment, a small, lonely moment, nobody moved. Silence breathed in the room like a stalking predator. Someone could have dropped a bottle cap on the rug, and the hollow thud would have been audible. Life, for that small, lonely moment, hung frozen. 

And then everyone got up at once. Voices flew in all directions, swirling around them in a tornado, questions about who would go in what car, questions about what was wrong, questions about Derek, questions about Meredith and did she need help with Derek, which only made Derek cringe more, cringe away from the buffeting attack of sound. She struggled to keep him upright and guided him toward the door, ignoring the hailstorm of words. Someone was sure to follow with keys, and she doubted there'd be any chance she and Derek would beat them to a vehicle, not at their torturous, crawling pace.

"No," Ellen said from behind Meredith, her take-charge voice slicing the din like a sharpened butcher knife. "Did you see him? He doesn't need a circus. Kathy, why don't you come? The rest of you can wait here, okay?"

Meredith turned the knob and pushed open the front storm door with her hip. She stumbled out into the chilly darkness with Derek. They shuffled down the front walk. She looked at the long, snaking driveway, looked at the parked line of car after car. Big, expensive, shiny luxury sedans and vans, mostly, though a tiny, curvy sports car smiled happily from the middle of the line like a rebellious child bucking the trend. Which one? Damn it. She had no idea. None. But then Kathy swooped in on the other side, wrapping Derek's other arm over her shoulder, and Meredith let herself follow the tide of her guidance toward the dark-colored Mercedes parked at the very end of the drive. 

Derek folded into the rear seat with a pained sob, and Meredith slipped in next to him. Ellen settled into the front passenger seat, and Kathy hopped into driver's side, turning the ignition, pulling her seatbelt across her lap, and shifting the car out of park in what seemed like one single flourish of movement.

"So, what's wrong?" Kathy asked into the tense silence as she backed the car out of the driveway. The car rocked as it hit the dip of the gutter between the road and the driveway, and everyone in the car swayed. What little color Derek had, what little color Meredith could see in the pale light provided by the streetlamps, drained away from him, leaving him ashen and bloodless and ghostlike.

"I don't know," Meredith said. "I don't... Symptoms are all across the board, I have no idea," she said, frustrated. He had some indicators of a hematoma... some post concussion syndrome... and some that didn't match either. He was a mess.

Derek leaned his head against the glass, swallowing, panting, sounding wrecked, almost like he was weeping. He didn't offer any input, no sort of self-diagnosis, which again made Meredith plunge deep into a well of fear. It meant he didn't know, or he was too incapacitated to tell them what he thought. Both prospects were terrifying.

When they pulled up at the hospital and parked, Ellen got out and went ahead of them at a brisk walk into the building. Kathy came around to Derek's side of the car. She and Meredith helped him out of the seat, Meredith pushing from the inside, Kathy pulling from the outside. He moved slowly, shakily, almost like he was afraid to put his full weight on his limbs, as if he expected his balance to give out, even with the both of them helping him along. 

They sat down in the waiting room. Derek curled between them, silent, looking awful. Meredith pulled his head down onto her shoulder and brushed her fingers through his hair. He let her. Not one protest, not one word.

The waiting was awful. Awful. People with twisted ankles, bleeding paper cuts, all manner of injuries and sickness sat around them in a crush, making noise, probably making the wait for Derek even longer, all because they couldn't tell a superficial cut from grievous, sucking wound, couldn't tell a cold from a life-threatening pneumonia. Meredith resisted the urge to run around and triage everyone, to tell the old woman with a sniffly nose to come back later, to tell the man with the bleeding gash on his arm to just apply pressure and go away. The noise, the brightness, it couldn't be doing any good for Derek. And the longer they waited, the more pounding it all became, even to her.

Ellen rejoined them in moments. "I signed him in with the secretarial staff. I told them it was urgent and that he'd recently had a severe concussion. I didn't know what else to say."

"Did you mention the shaking and the headaches?" Meredith asked.

"Yes," Ellen said.

Meredith nodded. "Okay."

The wait turned into minutes. And then clusters of minutes. None of them said anything. If they tried to talk about what was wrong, it might just stress Derek out more. He knew better than any of them the complications of head trauma. He knew better than any of them that if he had an advanced hematoma, there was a good chance he wasn't going to walk out of the ER. He knew... Meredith stopped herself from inwardly reciting all of this crap. It was just making her grip on his shoulders tighter, and he didn't need that. 

She couldn't imagine his terror... She'd thought it'd been awful, knowing it all already and waiting to hear about Derek after the accident. How awful must it be to be sitting there, knowing you were potentially a ticking time bomb, knowing how to disarm it yourself, but be forced to wait for somebody else to help you... She swallowed back tears.

She never should have let him be alone, she decided. She never should have done that. Maybe on a normal day, on a normal day when he was just being broody, but not when Derek was sick like this. She'd just assumed... He'd said go away, it'd struck her to the bone, and she'd let it. She'd just let him stab her when she should have parried and told him to stuff it. She bit back on a sob. She was awful at the sick thing. Awful at it. Why did she always have to run away?

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Meredith tried to tamp down on her fury as it built and built, riding on each minute like a rodeo cowboy. She ground her molars, held each breath deep down in the pit of her chest until they compressed her stomach, though she tried desperately to keep the tension out of her muscles. Clutched in her embrace the way he was, Derek would feel that. But she fumed, nonetheless. Fumed at herself for being so fucking oblivious. Fumed at them. Them. The hospital. He could have a dangerous, life-threatening hematoma, and they were letting him sit there with the bloody noses and minor fractures and colicky babies. He trembled in her arms, resting against her with his eyes shut. She shielded his face with her palm, trying to block out some of the light for him. 

"Derek Shepherd?" an orderly called as he looked up from a clipboard. Meredith's head snapped up at the noise, and a swell of relief almost bowled her over. Twenty minutes, they'd waited. A record for an emergency room visit, for her, anyway, but still... That was about nineteen minutes longer than she thought was necessary.

She and Kathy stood up, helping Derek up. The orderly guided them to a curtain and pulled it back, revealing a small corner section of the room, a gurney, and a small sink coming out of the wall.

"Lie down, sweetheart," Ellen said. 

Derek could barely climb onto the gurney, but they managed with some careful shifting and shoving. He curled over on his side and lay there for a minute or two, breathing, slow and exhausted. Discomfort pinched his face, creased his features. Meredith stood by his side and rubbed his back, biting down tears. Kathy stood by his head, and his mother stood over on the other side of the gurney.

"Still with us, Der?" Kathy asked nervously as he lay there in silence, greater and greater lengths of minutes ticking past in a slow crawl. More minutes that something could be wrong and nobody was doing anything about it. Meredith was growing to hate this hospital with a passion, though she knew somewhere deep in her mind that her distaste was all irrational. 

He swallowed. His body bunched up. The paper on the gurney crinkled as he pulled a tent of it into his palm and squeezed. "Sick," he said, voice weakened, faint, and slain with misery.

"I know," Ellen whispered. "I know."

"Hello, everyone," the familiar voice of Dr. Zalkind said as he pushed the curtain back and walked into the tight space with them. "I heard there've been complications with the concussion?" 

Mismatched scrubs. Again. She resisted the urge to glare at the hideous red and blue together. Was the man colorblind? She clenched her hands, trying to ignore it. Maybe he had a good excuse. Maybe someone had barfed on him and that was the only change he had. Or something. Her nails cut into her skin.

"Something's wrong," Meredith explained through gritted teeth. "He's been so dizzy he's been having trouble walking, and now he's getting headaches and nausea. He's been constantly tired, but he's been doing nothing but sleep. And the tremors were getting better for a while, but now he's got them all over. I prescribed him meclizine for the dizziness. It helped a little with that, but the rest..." She shrugged helplessly as her throat closed up, and she had to stop.

Dr. Zalkind walked to the side of the gurney. Ellen stepped backward, bumping into the little hand sink as she attempted to make way for him. He did a quick physical examination, listening to Derek's heart and lungs, checking his eye movement with a penlight, asking Derek to count backwards from ten. 

"Okay, would you all mind going back to the waiting room?" Dr. Zalkind asked. "I'm going to send him up for an MRI."

Meredith rubbed Derek's side. "Love you," she said as the nurses came to wheel him away.

They walked back out into the waiting room into a corner that was mostly empty. And again, for the second time in less than a week, Meredith found herself waiting to find out if Derek was all right, surrounded by Derek's family, though the crowd was thankfully smaller. 

"He'll be okay," Kathy said. 

Meredith put her head in her hands, blinking against the pounding ache that started to settle behind her eyes, pessimism ripping away any ability she had right now to believe what Kathy had just said. "I shouldn't have left him alone. He has a bad concussion. Of course he needed supervision," she mumbled, broken, whispery. "He might have been lying like that for hours. I--" 

She fell away into silence as her voice cracked and failed. Hot, slippery tears ran against her cheeks, racing in pairs down to the ends of her chin like runners doing sprints. She sniffed, trying to make it quiet, trying to hide behind the wall of her hair as she leaned down and let it cascade over her features, but it was a futile effort.

Ellen clucked her tongue, a worried, sad sound. She pulled Meredith into a firm, solid hug. "He'll be fine, dear. I'm sure of it." 

It was a warm thing. The hug. Meredith didn't know what to do with it. Didn't know what to think. For a moment, there was blind panic at being embraced by this woman she didn't know. Her breath stopped, and she tensed. But the warmth seeped in, wrapping her in a blanket. The soothing whispers fell around her like the beat of water from a shower spigot. It was nice.

She sighed. It was really nice... 

Her fingers slowly unclenched, and she stayed there, letting herself be embraced. Ellen wore a subtle, flowery perfume. It smelled like... spring. Fresh after a rain, when dewdrops were everywhere, giving everything an earthy odor. Meredith breathed, and breathed, and breathed. The smell was soothing. And the words Ellen said were soothing. It was all...

Nice.

Dr. Zalkind came into the waiting room moments later, clipboard in hand, and Meredith pulled back like a kid who'd gotten caught with her hand stuck still clutched around the marker after the nearby wall had been painted black with scribbles. She rubbed the crying out of her eyes. She inhaled, forcing herself to calm down as the doctor began to speak. "He's up getting an MRI now. I had him bumped to the front of the line. I will say I'm concerned. It could be a bleed, but a lot doesn't match up right. Is his amnesia getting any better?"

"He's remembered about two months in full, I think, and it looks like he's been getting random pieces of the next couple months," Meredith answered. "It's hard to tell for certain."

Memories were a tricky thing. They weren't like files on a computer, organized by date and ready to call up on a whim. Memories were a scattershot of thoughts, loitering on the floor like cards in a game of fifty-two-pickup. Any one of them could get picked up at any time, from any sort of stimulus. Some moments might end up permanently lost, and Derek would never know, because who ever counted the cards in a pile of fifty-two-pickup? 

Dr. Zalkind nodded. "Has there been a lot of change in his life recently?"

"That's an understatement..." Kathy muttered.

"How has he been at home since the concussion?" Dr. Zalkind asked. "Has he been under stress?"

"Nancy..." Kathy began. "His sister. She's been yelling at him. Among other things."

"And his primary complaints are dizziness, fatigue, headaches, tremors, and now nausea?" Dr. Zalkind asked. He scribbled notes on his clipboard.

"Wait a minute," Kathy said as realization tumbled across her face. "Anxiety?"

Dr. Zalkind nodded. "A lot of his symptoms could be just lingering effects of the concussion. Seventy-two hours is sort of a vanilla rule that everyone gets taught, but things can last much longer than that. It's widely debatable when the symptoms of a concussion stop being the concussion itself and become post concussion syndrome. But the symptoms he's showing could also be anxiety. He's very tense, and his heart rate is troublesome. Neither of those have anything to do with concussion. Has he seemed worried or upset lately?"

"Yes," Ellen said. "He was crying earlier. Really crying. I've seen him sniffle before, but never really cry."

Meredith snapped her gaze to Ellen. Crying? Derek... Her heart tore just a little more when she saw the serious, worried look on Ellen's face. She swallowed, thinking back. He'd been crying, too, when she'd found him in the kitchen early in the morning, just after he'd remembered Mark with Addison. He'd tried to hide it, tried to wipe it away, but she'd seen the tracks on his face before he'd gotten the chance to fully conceal it. His subsequent, lusty attempt at kissing her senseless and the following discussion, well, it'd almost made her forget about it.

"He wasn't doing so well when he remembered Mark, either," Meredith said. "And he was a wreck just before he finally admitted something might be wrong earlier. Just before we came here."

Dr. Zalkind wrote some more notes on the clipboard. "Does he have a past history of anxiety?"

"No," Ellen said. "Not at all. He's usually very easygoing."

"All right. Well, if the MRI comes up clean..." Dr. Zalkind said. "Really, there's a ton of things it could be. There's so much unknown about brain injuries. Sometimes scans can come up clean and there's still damage. But I'd like to try an anti-anxiety prescription. Anxiety is a common aftereffect of head injuries, and with the added stressor of his returning memories... well, we could just be in a double trouble area. It's my best guess at the moment, and if we get the anxiety under control, it might stop exacerbating his other symptoms."

"So," Ellen said. "You're saying he's worrying himself sick, essentially?"

"It's very possible. I'd like to see the MRI results first. I'll be back in a few minutes, and then we'll talk." Dr. Zalkind turned on his heels and trotted off.

Kathy put her head in her hands. Black curls fell like a drape over her cheeks, concealing her face, but from the sigh she let loose, her distress was obvious. "I feel so stupid. How could I have missed that? Everything fits so well..."

"I missed it too," Meredith said, feeling a coil of guilt wrapping around her heart. "I mean, I knew he was overwhelmed, but..."

"But you're a surgeon," Kathy replied. "You're supposed to find physical reasons for problems. It's what you think of first. I'm the one who's the psychiatrist. I should have--"

"It's nobody's fault," Ellen said, cutting Kathy off. "Trying to be rational about loved ones always fails. Let's just take this as it comes."

They waited again, waited, waited, waited. Time crawled. Meredith felt wasted and sick herself. The sick thing, god. It wasn't the sick thing. It was the irrationally worried, nervous wreck, lovesick, torturous thing that bit and clawed and killed. And it was the worst feeling in the world. 

After what seemed like eons, the orderly called them back to the curtain Dr. Zalkind had dismissed them from. Derek was lying flat on his back on the gurney with his eyes shut, but his demeanor was just... different. His face was relaxed. Tension hadn't crunched up his face or convinced him to curl up on his side. Stillness gripped his frame. 

Dr. Zalkind entered a few minutes later. He checked Derek over again, but otherwise let him doze. 

"Okay, the MRI was clear," Dr. Zalkind said as he leaned back from Derek, stethoscope in hand. "I'm going to prescribe some anti-anxiety medication. This is for short-term use only, until his memory gains stabilize. After that, we'll ease him off it and see if things have improved. I'd suggest having him visit a mental health professional if he has prolonged difficulties. There are various medications that are better for long term use."

He wrote some scribbles down on a standard prescription sheet and held it out. Ellen took it and read it, squinting at what was no doubt the worst handwriting ever. No doctor had good handwriting, particularly toward the end of the day. It was a rule. 

"I went over this with him upstairs after the MRI," Dr. Zalkind continued, which explained why he hadn't woken Derek up to hear this. "I've already had him take some, so he'll be feeling a little groggy until he starts processing it correctly and the sedative side effects fade. That dose I gave him should hold him over until you can fill the prescription. Naturally, don't combine the meclizine with this, or it might make the sedative effects worse."

He clipped his pen on the lip of his lab coat pocket and recoiled his stethoscope. "If he still has the same symptoms of headache and so forth by Thursday when you bring him in to get his stitches out, or if he shows a propensity for the drug's more severe side effects, we'll reassess. And, of course, bring him in if anything gets noticeably worse."

"Thank you," Ellen said.

Dr. Zalkind shook her hand and left, strutting off in his mismatched scrubs, no doubt heading to the next priority patient, leaving the three of them and a prone Derek alone. 

"All right, let's go home," Ellen said after they watched the doctor depart. "Kathy, can you fill this first thing in the morning?" 

Kathy nodded as she took the slip of paper from Ellen's outstretched hand. "Better yet, I'll fill it now at the hospital pharmacy and take a taxi home."

Meredith leaned down and rubbed Derek's shoulder. "Derek, wake up," she whispered. 

His eyes slipped open after a few seconds of her gently shaking him. A dull gloss of sleep covered his gaze, but the fear, the upset... It was all gone. He wasn't shaking at all anymore, either. "Hey," she said with a relieved smile. "Do you feel a little better?"

He swallowed. "Meredith."

"Ready to go?" she asked. 

He blinked. For a moment, confusion slathered his features. He made a sound. A little one. It didn't betray a particular emotion. It was more like a word that had gotten lost, taken a wrong turn out of his brain without him meaning to utter it. She watched him, could veritably see the process of wit gathering as he forced himself into the here and now. He rolled onto his side after he latched onto wakefulness. With a shaking bicep, forced himself to a sitting position, and, after a breath to steady himself, he slipped off the gurney.

He stood up with a sigh. It was an effort, but he did it all on his own. He leaned against the gurney and breathed. Meredith wrapped her arm around his waist. Kathy helped him on the other side. As they walked out to the car, the difference Meredith noticed in him bordered on phenomenal. He was obviously tired, obviously a little out of phase with reality, which was to be expected since he was still technically sedated, but he wasn't stumbling around, wasn't struggling to stay upright, wasn't trembling or panting or panicky. If his thoughts were racing like before, he wasn't talking about it, wasn't mumbling words and thoughts with the randomness of lightning strikes. She preferred to assume they just weren't racing anymore, which was a blessing. Maybe it would give him a chance to really process what was going on. 

Meredith felt like a complete idiot for missing it all before. Kathy was right. She'd looked at the physical symptoms from a surgical standpoint. What type of head or brain injury would cause this? In her mental search for something fixable, something wrong with his body, not his state of mind, she'd glossed over the common mental effects of PCS, glossed over the fact that those mental effects could have a whole host of ugly symptoms on their own. Anger at herself for watching him suffer for so long without realizing what the problem was pulsed deep in her gut, deep and ugly. The first day or two, that'd probably been mostly the physical concussion symptoms. But she would bet money that day three, that day, had been when the anxiety had taken over. When he'd started remembering in huge chunks, rather than just a little at a time.

After they settled Derek in the car, Kathy tossed the keys to Ellen and wandered back toward the hospital, but Ellen called after her in the lot, "Don't be silly, Kathy. We'll just wait. We're fine."

He slept in the car. It was odd to watch him. One moment he was awake, and the next he was out, leaning up against the cool glass of the car window. She couldn't stop touching him, couldn't stop reassuring herself. He didn't even flinch as her hands roamed across his body, which really rung home just how sedated he was. 

That made her worry a little. She wasn't sure he would appreciate having the anxiety gone at the expense of his own self-control. Then again, with the kind of misery he'd been crushed under, he might not care so much. And, as he started working with the drug a little better, he would get used to it.

Thirty minutes later, Kathy rejoined them, and Ellen pulled them out of the lot. Derek still didn't budge. His steady breaths fogged up the window, and he slept. Peaceful. It was an utter relief to watch. Meredith leaned back against the seat and sighed. Sighed as all the ugly worry from before leaked out of her.

When they pulled back into the driveway, it took a few tries to rouse him. He was confused for a slogging, stretched moment, but then he started to comply as they verbally prodded him onward. All on his own, he made his way up the front walk, albeit slowly, but it was more of a daze that kept his pace stunted, not balance problems, not dizziness, evidenced by his sure steps. Meredith waited, her arm clasped around him, more for her own comfort than for his support, as Ellen put the key in the bolt lock and pushed open the door.

On the way back into the house, the family swarmed. "He's all right," Ellen said without precursor, and then she forced everyone back with flitty shooing motions so they could get Derek up into the bedroom without being blocked by well-wishing. He walked up the steps, sort of like an automaton, not talking much, not talking at all, really, but obviously far better off than he had been on the way down the steps when Meredith had practically needed to drag him.

Derek collapsed into bed, blinking, silent. Kathy quirked a smile at him. "Night, Der," she said. Ellen rubbed his chest and said the same before leaving. The door shut behind them with a resounding thud.

Meredith and he were alone again.

"I'm sorry I missed it, Derek. I should have figured it out," she lamented as she changed her t-shirt and slipped under the sheets next to him. 

He stared blankly at the ceiling, an unfocused, sedate gaze across his face. She hadn't realized how tense he'd been until the tension had disappeared. The difference... It was, well, it was so comforting. Comforting to know that Dr. Zalkind had probably been dead on in his diagnosis, comforting to know that they'd finally figured out what to fix. Comforting that they'd finally figured out what to fix and it was fixable, unlike a lot of problems associated with brain injury.

"I want it to stop," he whispered, breaking into her musing. He stared at the ceiling, not moving. His tone, upset, unhappy, but at least not breaking with it, made her turn to watch him.

"Want what to stop?" she said. 

He blinked, blinked, blinked. Like he was trying to stop himself from tears. "It wasn't me. Doing those things. I don't want any more of it back," he said. He rolled onto his side, away from her, but when she wrapped her arms around him, he let her. He sighed at her touch. His body was firm and still in her grip. No tremors.

"I'm sorry," he said.

His breathing evened out, and he was asleep before she had a chance to ask him anything else.


	18. Chapter 16

The first time Derek woke up that morning, it was very brief. If someone were to have asked him about it later, he wouldn't have remembered beyond a vague blur of it. Meredith was still out and snoring next to him. Kathy stood over him, hair frizzy, all bedraggled and sleepy-looking. She held a glass of water and a pill. 

"Sorry to wake you, Der, but you're supposed to take this now," she whispered.

He muttered something, something like, "Whtmist," as he rubbed his eyes and forced himself to sit up. But Kathy understood.

"6AM," she said as he downed the pill with a clumsy, gulping chug. "Go back to sleep." She tiptoed away, he closed his eyes, and the world went away again.

The second time Derek woke up, it was the first time that he could remember since the accident that he didn't mind. He didn't mind that he was awake. He yanked his palms down over his face and just lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling as he inhaled a huge, cleansing breath.

Noises bounced up from downstairs and into the door where they muffled and stumbled the last few feet to his ears. Meredith was gone. Light filtered in through the cracks in the blinds. Harsh light. Heat. Enough to tell him that it was fairly late. He rolled over and looked at the clock. 11AM. 

He rolled back and stared at the ceiling some more. He blinked. He wasn't tired. Not really. Well, he wasn't back to a hundred percent. That was for sure. There was a bit of drowsiness lingering behind his eyes, like he'd taken a tad too much of an antihistamine, enough to clot his mind with a little bit of fuzz. But it wasn't... all consuming. It wasn't so overpowering that it made him want to roll over and just let the exhaustion pound him miserably back into unconsciousness.

He felt... oddly disconnected from himself. He sat up after several disturbed moments of staring, realizing he just felt... blank. Nothing whined in the background of his thoughts. Nothing coiled. The headache was gone. The room didn't swirl now that he was upright.

When he commanded himself to move, movement happened. He stared at his hands as he clenched and unclenched his fists. No shaking. Nothing. No delay between the thought and the result. And, yet, there was still some sort of barrier there that didn't make sense to him.

When he thought about the night before and how awful it had been, he felt like he was watching with a filter between him and the memories, like his very own internal, private censor stood there between his brain and his mind's eye with bleep buttons and black bars, whispering at him, "Oops, that's too disturbing, so I'll tamp that down to black-and-white and blur it up a little. Oops, oops, oops. You can't freak out about that." It upset him to think about the horrible things from the day before, but it didn't... upset him. Not to the point that his body was rejecting the thoughts. He felt a little sick. A little disturbed. But nothing like the day before. Nothing like... A shudder ran through him despite the drugs he could tell were in his system.

He'd honestly thought he was going to die. He could vaguely recall lying in the bedroom under the harsh crush of months and months of remembered moments. He could vaguely recall lying there for who knew how long as the thoughts twisted around him like a noose, tighter, tighter, tighter, faster, faster, faster, until Meredith had shown up and he'd just... The rope had yanked up, and he'd just... Snapped. With the flare of a light, he'd snapped. And then he'd been dying. He'd been dying, and she'd made him move, made him walk through a blur of color and thumps and motion that'd made him feel sick, sick, sicker, and he'd barely been able to make himself follow. 

He could remember Meredith, running her hands through his hair as he sat in the waiting room, and he'd just hung there in her arms, shaking, unable to do anything because his body had overtaken his mind in a vicious coup d'état, and his body hadn't been interested in doing anything but react to the fear and worry and other ugly things his brain was pelting him with. He'd felt like everything had been dropping out from under him. The noise, the lights, the throb of his heart thundering in his chest, all under the twist of memories, all out of order... All of it had ripped deep into his muscles like gouging, rending claws. 

Because it hadn't been him. It'd been this horrible shell masquerading with his body as a mask. So much had happened... He'd done so many things. So many things that were wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And he couldn't stop them from happening. All he'd been able to do was watch. They'd just kept pounding into him in wave after unforgiving wave. And the more he'd wanted it to go away, to stop reminding him of what he'd forgotten, the faster and harder they'd hit him. Slam, slam, slam into his head like a pike under the weight of an iron mallet. There'd been a roaring, snapping fear, biting at his brain, his heart, to the point that he hadn't been able to think anymore. Hadn't been able to function. He'd just sat there, a pile of shaky muscles and bones. Waiting to die. 

He never wanted to feel that way again.

But the whole detachment... Looking back to the day before made his throat close up. Made his eyes water. Made his stomach curl. But it felt like he had an automatic parking brake clamping down on his axles or something, something dragging away the worst of the acceleration into upset, the part of his momentum that would have made him start to shake under the weight of it all. Maybe he was imagining it... Maybe.

But he didn't like it. Didn't like the inhibited feeling.

He looked around and spotted the orange prescription bottle by the bedside table. He picked it up and stared. Alprazolam. He was on alprazolam. It hadn't really sunk in the night before when the doctor had been explaining it to him. Hadn't really... He'd just wanted anything to make it stop, anything to make the pounding stop, anything to make the grim reaper go away.

He stared at the bottle for a long, long time. He rolled it in his hands, heard the rattle of the pills as they spiraled inside, though the sound seemed far away from him. Benzodiazepines. He'd used them any number of times on patients as powerful anticonvulsants, sedatives... But they were also used as anti-anxiety agents. They were prone to making the user dependent if taken for too long, though they were often helpful in the short term. Alprazolam was engineered specifically for anxiety instead of being multi-purpose.

And now he was on it. Valium's sister Xanax. And he was on it. He was on tranquilizers. He was tranqued. He was...

He didn't know what to think. 

He didn't like the censor. But he didn't want to degenerate into a quivering pile again, either. And he wasn't confident that he wouldn't do that if he were to stop taking it. Not when just thinking about last night made him feel like crying. He bit back on it, the urge to break down again. He bit back on it and pushed it away. He couldn't deal with any of that now. He couldn't...

Later.

He sighed, put the pill bottle down, and stood, bracing himself for the revolving room that was sure to come. Except it didn't. The floor stayed still. Stayed underneath his feet, exactly where it was supposed to be. Not like with the meclizine, where the spinning was just dulled. No, this... This was no spinning at all.

He stretched himself, raising his arms way above his head. He pulled himself up onto his tiptoes, stretching until it hurt, stretching until his body started to tilt and he couldn't hold it anymore, not because the room was spinning but because human bodies just weren't meant to stay that way for very long. It felt good. Good to be able to move again. 

He walked to the bedroom door. It wasn't a journey. It was ten feet, and it passed by in about five strides. Five strides where he hadn't thought one iota about walking. He'd just done it.

He poked his head out of the room, squinting. His eyes watered, and a bit of pain speared him, bringing his momentary elation at being able to move again back down out of the rafters into just moderate excitement. He darted through the hall into the bathroom, which had no windows and was a lot darker. He sighed in relief as the stabbing sensation in his eyes relaxed away into nothing. He quickly relieved himself.

It was when he stood there washing his hands that he got a good look at himself in the mirror. It was the first time he'd looked, really, since he could remember. And he was horrified. Dark circles hugged his eyes. Four days of beard growth swathed face, which looked pale and gaunt. His hair, which he couldn't remember combing in a long, long time, was a snarled, greasy mess of twisted, jutting curls and spikes, sort of like how he imagined he'd look if he were to stick his finger in a wall socket... Combined with the stitches along his forehead, he felt a little like Frankenstein. And now that he was doing a catalog, the rest of him started checking in. His mouth felt sticky, pasty, gross. He needed a shower. Badly. He almost didn't know where to start. 

He opted for the shower. 

He spent a long time standing in the spray. Just standing. Staring. Staring without even realizing that that was all he was doing. Absent of thoughts. Just letting the weird detachment hold him there in its silent thrall. The water pounded down around him in a rush of beating warmth. Everything went blurry as the spray curtained everything. And all there was was the rush. Like blood in his ears, or wind on a cool spring day. Rush. Water. Rush. 

"Derek, is that you in here?" Meredith called as she cracked the door open.

Derek jerked, startled from his momentary catatonia. His heart thumped a little before calming back down. He blinked, and, finally, as he caught up with the situation, he froze, realizing belatedly that he hadn't bothered to lock the door. "Yes," he said.

"I'm just putting your things in here. Your razor and stuff. I figured you might want them," she said.

"Thank you," he said, standing there, dripping, naked, muscles rigid, just a barrier of marbled glass between them. She stood still for a moment. He saw the blur of her, hovering.

He wanted to say it.

Stay. 

He wanted to.

The word stuck on the tip of tongue, and she was gone before he could force it out. He relaxed again, sighing against the spray as he raked his fingers through his sopping hair. Meredith. Meredith... She...

He'd...

He blinked, frozen in the space between the moment of remembering and the moment that would follow. And then time came back in a rush, and everything from the day before condensed in his head like a collapsing star. Months and months of him staying with Addison, him moping over Meredith, Meredith... sleeping with guy after guy, knitting, getting a dog, doing all those things to erase him. He'd never gotten that before. That it had all been about getting rid of him.

The rolling force of weeping he'd pushed back behind himself returned like a pendulum. He felt a crushing weight in his chest. His tongue pulled back. Pain swept down the back of his throat as he tried desperately to stop it. Not now. Not now. He wasn't ready for this now. He didn't want...

The first sob came on the coattails of a guttural moan. It was a deep, ugly, hating thing. His torso shook with it. His legs suddenly felt weak. He put his hands out in front of him and leaned against the cool tiles. 

The second sob came after a fierce thirty seconds of holding his breath as he tried to deny the need to take in air. Not now, not now, not now, he kept telling himself. He couldn't do this now. He didn't want it now... He wanted to fix what little he could fix first. He wanted to shave, to actually wash himself off, to brush his teeth, maybe even eat before he collapsed into a sick, twisted pile of wasting nothing again.

Not now, not now, not now...

The door came open again. "Derek, I-" Meredith said, and then her voice fell away into silence. 

He bit down so hard on sob number three that it made his chest hurt, made everything shake, made his head flare with ache.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He put his head against the tile, closed his eyes. "I'm okay," he managed, even as his lungs racked his torso into a frantic war of panting against the crying. His voice sounded breathy, barely audible above the water.

Not now, not now, not now, he pleaded. Please, please, not now.

The door shut again, but through the blur of yet-to-fall tears slathered over his eyes, through the blur of the marbled barrier, he saw her still standing there. She was moving. Doing something... She...

Her hand slid up against the glass, squeaking as her fingers scraped along the condensation. And then she was opening the door. It rustled along the tracks, pulled back to reveal her naked, curvy body. She shifted, stepped over the tub wall with one lovely, long leg, then the other. 

"You're turning into me," she said with a sad smile. "I'm the one who says I'm fine when I'm not."

He looked at her for another second. And then the world split around him, and he couldn't keep it in anymore. He turned around and leaned against the wall, hot blush pouring over him as he sobbed and sniveled and wept like some sort of emotional trauma case, which he supposed he was, but that didn't make it any less embarrassing. 

She spooned up against his back. "It's okay," she said, soothing, whispering against his neck. "This year has kind of sucked, hasn't it?"

She slid her hands up and down the line of his ribcage, leaned up against him while he shook. "But it's all my fault," he said between sucking, gasping breaths. "It's all my fault that it's been this awful."

_Eventually feels a lot different than actually. It's surprisingly painful..._

Her hands paused. "Trust me, Derek. It's not all your fault." She started to rub again. Her fingers ran over the bumps of his ribs, pausing, petting, almost as if she were trying to locate the one he'd broken when he'd crashed his Harley. It was a soothing, crawling motion.

_Christmas makes you want to be with people you love.._.

His body rocked forward and backward with her gentle motions. He couldn't stop it. Couldn't stop himself from moving. Couldn't stop himself from the sucking, gasping sobs that felt like they were tearing out pieces of his chest. 

"I was in this hole..." he said, breathing, panting, whining against the tiles as the bright swirl of Christmas lights twinkled in his brain. Christmas trees and eggnog and head traumas and... Depression. Christmukah carols or some such nonsense flitted in his mind. Addison stared back at him with stunned disbelief. _Meredith wasn't a fling. She wasn't revenge. I fell in love with her..._ And Addison stared. "This deep hole..."

The sparkly lights fell away into the deep hum of an elevator. Their elevator. Meredith walked in, happy, bouncy, wearing a brown jacket thing over blue jeans that made her look... curvy, professional... cute... luscious... _I got a dog. _

The tiles felt cool against his hot, steam-drenched skin. He clenched his fingers, clawed down the tiles, but all his hands did was slip, slip, slip. Helpless... He was. He heaved, his voice trembling as he tried to pull himself together, only to fail again. "And it seemed more and more insurmountable the longer I waited to climb. And the longer I waited the more jealous I got, because you were moving on and I was stuck in the hole, clawing, screaming, trying to make it work with a woman who..."

_I've moved on, so don't give me that look..._

He sighed, shaking, barely standing. He wanted it to stop. He wanted it all to stop. But it wouldn't stop. He was crying, and it wouldn't stop. He was crying in front of Meredith, and it wouldn't stop. He was standing naked, Meredith pressed naked up against him, and there was no sex, just crying. And it felt wrong. And he couldn't stop. 

Why had he done those things? Why, why, why...

"She used to mean something to me, Mere. She used to... And I thought it would come back, but it didn't. You were stuck in my head. All the time. Stuck." 

She had a cut above her eye. A cut. She'd been hurt. By the bomb. The bomb that had exploded that day... _You'd just washed your hair, and you smelled like some kind of... flower._

"And I knew I'd made the wrong choice, but I always felt like I was too late..." 

The news crushed him. He tried to keep himself together. Tried to be the friend she'd made him promise to be. He bit around the stabbing pain and gave her advice... Told her to use their elevator. Their elevator to fix things with George. George. _I slept with George..._

Too late, too late, too late...

"And I kept sinking," he whispered. "I kept sinking, and you were moving on. You gave me your dog, you slept with all those men, and I... I tried to drag you back down with me, and I..." 

_You don't get to call me a whore..._

Broke her, broke her, broke her.

"God. Mere, I'm so sorry. I'm..." His voice cracked and died. He felt awful. Awful, and shaky, and tired, and he just wanted it all to stop. He'd done such horrible things to her. Broken her... And she was there holding him up while he sobbed about it. What the fuck, fuck, fuck. He slammed his hand against the wall, but it only lost traction, slipped, and started the whole cycle of vicious pain again. He blinked, blinked, blinked, but it didn't help. It was hot. The shower was hot. The self-loathing was hot. His chest burned. 

And he hated it.

"Derek, I wasn't moving on," she whispered from behind him, as if she didn't realize he'd already come to this conclusion. Yesterday, yesterday in the torrent of memories he didn't want, he'd come to it. Between the twist, twist, twist of the noose. "I was barely breathing."

"I know," he whispered. "Now, I know." He squeezed his eyes shut, let the beat of the water try and take it all away, except it didn't do a thing but drench him, make him feel waterlogged, full of ugly, awful things that he just didn't want. 

"I feel like I'm watching an awful movie. I want me to fucking get a clue, but I don't. I keep watching, and I don't get the damned clue I'm begging for right now, because I'm so wrapped up in me, so wrapped up in my own jealous, hurting island... I'm so angry at myself right now it hurts, Mere," he hissed. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And then he was back to the sobbing like a fucking yo-yo. His hands shook. He wanted to collapse and just let the shower drown him. "Please, please tell me this ends soon," he begged. "I don't... I don't want any more. I can't. Please..."

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He'd done all of it. He'd really done it. And he knew why. And it was an ugly reason. 

Fear.

He'd always thought he was a better person than that.

He thunked his head against the tiles, not caring anymore, not caring about anything except the fact that he was not okay. Not okay. Not okay. And he didn't want any more of it back. He didn't want any more...

"When am I me again?" he whispered.

Fuck.

He started to dip down, but she grabbed him around the waist. He sobbed. He sobbed. He sobbed. And she held him up until he finished.

He stood against the wall, leaning weakly, spent, unable to move as the last bit of suffering leaked out of him. He was too tired to cry any more. Numbness gripped him, sent pins and needles through his limbs.

She stepped away from him for a moment, and he felt bereft, but then she was back against him, lathering up a washcloth. She rubbed it up his chest in slow, soothing circles, leaving a trail of suds behind. She washed his back, his arms, his legs, his neck, everything, rubbing, soothing, trying to massage away all the hurt, all while he stood there, straddling the line between hovering in catatonia and devolving back into a mess again. Everything ached. His throat hurt. He didn't think he would find his voice if he tried to speak at that point.

Her hands snaked through his hair as she scrubbed the shampoo deep down through every lock, every pore. The water roared around him as she pulled him back into the buffeting spray to rinse him off. He stood, passive, letting her do what she wanted. He didn't have the energy. Didn't have anything left in him. The water had finally started to run lukewarm as she washed the last bit of filth away. 

She reached around and turned the spray off, and he stood there, dripping.

The glass door rustled as she yanked it back along its track and stepped out. Wrapped in her own towel, she came back with a big, fluffy towel and stood beside the tub like a catcher with a mitt. "Get out of the tub, Derek," she commanded.

He shakily gripped the edge of the door, stepped over the tub wall... barely managed to get his balance as he flailed onto the bathroom floor. She caught him with the towel, wrapped it around his shivery torso. 

"Sit," she commanded.

He let himself fall down onto the toilet seat. He curled over. 

She knelt down on the floor in front of him. A swath of steam curled around the both of them in a winding, twisting, hot cloud. "I don't know what to say, Derek," she said, sounding lost and sad and all sorts of things he didn't want her to feel. 

He stared dully at his hands, his breaths rasping and hollow. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, unable to force his tortured vocal cords to do much more than that. They'd given up on him and gone home for the day.

"No," she said. "I didn't mean... I wasn't looking for..." She sighed. "It's just... No matter how true it is, it's okay seems trite. I feel awful for saying thank you for apologizing. I needed to hear it, I didn't realize how badly I needed to hear it until you said it, but you... I'd always thought you were just being mean-spirited... I never thought..." Her words fell away. 

The steam sank in the silence that followed. It wisped away, pulled out of the air by the thrumming exhaust fan. He started to shiver as the hot air began to chill. 

"I love you," she said. 

"I don't know why," he replied, the words tearing at his raw throat. The back of his mouth ached. He didn't think he had any water in his system left to leak. He felt parched. His eyes felt sticky, despite the cleansing shower. And he felt sick. Not nauseated. Just sick.

Heartsick.

"I love you," she said again. "There isn't a why. And I'm sorry also."

He raised an eyebrow. "What do you have to be sorry for?"

"Because I think I broke you, too. It just took longer."

He stared at his hands, clasped weakly in his lap against the tent of the towel. He didn't know what to say to that. The silence stretched again. Stretched into long, coiling ribbons, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Just... Sad.

She sighed, seeming to come to some sort of decision. She slapped his knee lightly. "Okay. Let's see..." she muttered as she leaned over to the pile of his things she'd set on the lip of the sink. "I've only done this on legs and armpits before, but it can't be much different."

She grabbed a bottle of shaving cream and had a ball of it in her hand before he realized what was happening. "What?" he managed to ask before she was slathering it all over his face, and he was sputtering, trying to snake away from her. She grabbed his chin with the hand that didn't have the glob in it and held him still.

"Your beard. It's going," she said. "You suck to kiss right now, and I think you really need one." She came at him with his razor and a smile. He widened his eyes, but he held still for her. He felt the rasp of the blade against his cheeks in careful even strokes.

"Tilt," she said. 

He leaned his head back. The razor slipped down his neck.

"You're very trusting considering you think I should hate you," she said, grinning slyly.

"Well, either I get kissed, or I get murdered by my vengeful broken girlfriend," he replied. "Win, win."

"Don't joke about that, Derek," she said as she came at his face with a towel and wiped the gunk away.

"Sorry," he replied glumly, muffled behind the wall of white terrycloth. 

As soon as the towel pulled away, she leaned forward and kissed him. It was brief and light. She pulled back. "Mmm," she purred. "So much better." 

And then she leaned in again and kissed him in a way that left him breathless and panting. Her tongue rubbed along his teeth, slid into his mouth. He leaned back against the counter as she picked herself up and sat down in his lap. Her fingers kneaded the skin on the back of his neck. He snaked his arms around her back and held her tight against him as she searched, explored, teased... She tilted against him, sending him flailing back a little further. Something crashed to the floor, followed by a chorus of other somethings. Crash. Plink. Plink. Smash. A cloudy burst of sharp potpourri scent assaulted him, cloyed against the back of his throat. He sucked her down, trying to erase it as he ran his lips against her own in a sensual, quivery, halting journey. 

She pulled back, panting, and he sat there, tilted back at an angle, the sharp edge of the counter digging into his back as he blinked and breathed and a stunned, aroused stupor held him prisoner. "Okay," he gasped. "Okay, maybe not win, win. I think there was a lose. And it wasn't this."

"I think we broke your mother's soap dish," she whispered.

"It's okay," Derek said. "It was kind of ugly anyway."

"And the potpourri container?"

"Never liked it," he said.

She grinned and stood. "So, um, I'm going to go back and change. You're going to brush your teeth. And then we're going to go out to eat. Because you haven't been out in days, and we need it. We really need it, Derek."

"Um," he said, unable to help the smile that cut across his face.

"What?" she asked.

"Do I get to change, too? Or do you expect me to eat naked?"

She rolled her eyes. "I guess I'll make this small sacrifice..." 

He thought he heard her say, "Nuts," quietly under her breath. He whuffed with tired laughter as she left, and stood up moments later after she'd closed the door behind her. His muscles twinged as he hobbled around to face the vanity.

He brushed his teeth and flossed, and then he stared at himself again. Pale, gaunt, dark circles, but at least not so haggardly fuzzy anymore. "I hate you sometimes," he whispered, raw and deep against his throat.

Then he went after Meredith.


	19. Chapter 17

**Author's Notes: Well, the finale threw me for a loop, that's for sure. I'm kind of heartsick over it. I'm sure many others are as well. I hope this chapter provides some much-needed relief! Firstly, I wanted to thank everyone once again for all the reviews and kind words. Secondly, I just wanted to warn everyone that this is officially the last chapter in my saved up buffer. I have nothing else beyond this. I will post more as quickly as I can, but, unfortunately, I can't keep up with the daily posting. I outpaced myself. Sorry y'all! This story has proven to be a great challenge for me, but as a result, I'm writing a lot more slowly. My average for writing and finishing a part seems to be 2-4 days, and I will try to keep to that. I'm still here, still writing! Just not as fast as I can click submit :)**

* * *

"How about these?" Derek asked. Meredith looked up to find Derek standing there in the dorkiest looking pair of sunglasses she'd ever seen. They were the wide, fat kind that hung down over the wearer's cheeks, shaped like circles with the bottoms sagging out. 

"Airplane pilot," she said, snickering. "Not cool." He frowned.

When they had left the house, Derek had barely made it a stride before he'd paused behind her. His breath had come in a short, quick gasp of pain, and he'd wavered on the stoop. Meredith had turned just in time to see him squeeze his eyes shut, forcing out a rush of tears. 

"It's a little bright," he'd said as he'd brought his hands up to shield his face, and it had twisted at her heart. Because it really hadn't been that bright out. Just a normal, partly cloudy day. They'd decided to stop at CVS for a quick remedy before proceeding to the restaurant once they'd figured out that his sunglasses must have been left in the rental car. She'd loaned him her own for the trip there so he could at least see straight to give her directions, and, though they'd been woefully too small for him, they'd worked for him in a pinch.

Kathy had been gracious enough to loan out her Mercedes for their little day trip. She'd been delighted, actually, when she'd heard that Derek felt well enough to go out. She'd practically thrown the keys at them and shoved them out the door. 

Derek put the airplane pilot glasses back and yanked the next pair off the rack. "These?"

Meredith snorted. "John Lennon. Too retro."

"These?"

"Terminator. So over."

"These?"

"Stoned biker. Never in."

"Well, miss fashion expert," Derek said as he placed the fourth pair of sunglasses back on the rack. "Why don't you pick ones that will work for you?"

She glanced at the rack, biting her lip as she fell deep into thought. She pawed up and down the white turntable with the tips of her fingers, rotating it slowly to get a view of all the choices. There. Those were perfect. And they'd look great against the shape of his face. 

"Here," she said as she grabbed them off the rack. They caught on the nose hook, but she lifted and scooped them into her hand. "Sexy rock star. Do you approve?"

He took them from her and put them on, shrugging as he got a view of himself in the little strip mirror between the rack plates. "How are these different from Terminator?" he asked. "Actually, how is Terminator different from stoned biker? I'm a little unclear on the nuances of eyewear, apparently. Care to elaborate?"

He quirked a grin at her, and her breath caught. He really did look sexy in those.

"Oh, shut up, Derek," she said as she grabbed his arm and started pulling him to the front of the store. He let her drag him along as he laughed. "Sexy rock star. That's all you should care about."

"Just don't ask me to sing," he groused.

"Rock stars don't sing," she said as the cashier rung up the purchase. Derek handed the lady his credit card. "They break guitars and have sex with microphones onstage and make the crowd drool over their hot sunglasses. That's why they're called rock stars and not singers."

"Yes, but they sing occasionally," Derek said. "Between the microphone sex and the guitar breaking. It's called music. They sort of need it for there to be a concert in the first place."

The cashier snorted as she handed Derek's card back and he signed the receipt.

"Uh huh," Meredith replied. They started walking toward the door. "You keep the hope alive, Der." He grinned at her, his expression mysteriously unreadable to her with his eyes concealed behind the glasses. "What?" she said as the door dinged, and they pushed through it.

"You called me Der," he said. "It's the first time I've heard you shorten it. That I remember, anyway."

They walked out to the car. 

"Your family's rubbing off on me, I guess," she said. She pressed the lock button and climbed into the driver's side seat.

"Are you doing okay?" he asked as he sat down next to her in the front passenger seat.

"With what?"

"My family. I haven't exactly been around to referee much."

She paused. The family... really hadn't been as bad as she'd been expecting coming into things. She'd spent chunks of time with everyone except Natalie at that point, who seemed friendly enough. Meredith just hadn't had the opportunity yet to do much more than say hello. She'd stirred things. She'd been roped into entertaining the kids. And Ellen... Ellen had hugged her. And it was... 

"It's... Nice. Not like my family. My non family. My thing that had parents. Well, my thing that had a woman and a man and wedding rings, at one point. Or something. Everyone has been friendly with me, mostly. I think Nancy needs some of your Xanax, though," she said with a laugh. 

She turned to glance at him and found his mouth set in a grim line. She didn't need to see his eyes to see she'd stung him, however inadvertently. She reached out and touched his arm. "Sorry, I shouldn't joke. About the Xanax. Do you feel all right?"

"I'm doped up, Mere," he growled. "I feel like the pill bottle says I should feel. Falsely calm with a side of drowsy."

"Sorry," she said again. 

"No," he said, sighing as he stretched out his frame and visibly forced himself to relax. "No. I didn't mean to snap. I'm just..." He put his elbow on the side of the window and put the side of his cheek against his palm. "A little disturbed that I need it."

She frowned, unsure of what to say to that. After seeing him the night before... After seeing how upset he'd been just that morning, already on the Xanax... There was no doubt in her mind that he did need it. He did. She knew it was helping him, helping him keep himself from falling apart while he caught his breath and dealt with things. But she knew he hated it at the same time, and she ached for him. 

Maybe...

"We could wean you back off it, Derek," she found herself saying. "If it's really that awful. You know what the problem is now. Maybe... Maybe we could work through it if it gets bad again..."

"No," he said, his voice breaking.

And with that small word, she realized just how thin the line was that he straddled, which only shoved another sharp spear of dread into her gut. If he was that distraught already... She swallowed. She didn't want to see what he was going to do with the memories of her death. Her drowning. Pulling her up from the water. 

She knew on a clinical, textbook level that he'd been in shambles. She knew from his behavior in the aftermath that she'd really messed him up. But she hadn't seen it with her own eyes, hadn't been there to break his fall in the metaphorical shower. And, now, she would be. She didn't want to watch him suffer, knowing that she was the root cause of it. She didn't want to watch him suffer, period. The shower that day had been one of the most heartbreaking moments of her life. No apology should have been worth that.

"So," she managed to croak. She cleared her throat. "Where do you want to eat?"

"Why don't you turn in there?" Derek pointed across the street to a row of shops. "There aren't many choices around here."

"What's in there?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Just a little deli. They have good sandwiches and salads."

She turned the car on and drove across to the other side of the street in moments. Traffic was, well, pretty much nonexistent. The area just wasn't that populous. She pulled into one of the spaces in front of the small, cozy-looking building. White-lined red awnings hung over the wide glass windows of each shop. They flapped in the breeze. Evenly space flowerpots lined the street-side of the walk, which ran from end to end of the building.

The deli storefront was narrow. Through the window, she could see a line of booths up the side of one wall inside, a few of which were occupied by people from various walks of life. A line of curved, hollow glass countertops lit with fluorescent rods ran along the other wall. Through the glass, she could see all sorts of meats and pies and other food, all artistically arrayed. A blackboard menu with chalked in choices hung up at an angle near the ceiling. The whole thing seemed like the epitome of a mom and pop deli. It looked wonderful.

They walked through the door and were immediately greeted with a friendly, "Hello!" from the man standing behind the line of glass countertops. He wore a slightly dingy white apron over faded, frayed jeans and a white t-shirt. Meredith paused, wondering if they were supposed to order at the counter or go sit down or what, but Derek pushed past her and walked toward the back of the deli. 

She followed his lead, and they sat down at the very end, farthest from the windows, farthest from all of the other patrons. As Derek removed his rock star sunglasses, a tall, thin waitress who couldn't have been more than sixteen bounced up to them, all blond, bubbly, and friendly. "Can I get you anything to drink while you're deciding?" she asked in a low-pitched, smoky, alto tone that didn't match her effervescent demeanor in the slightest. 

"Ice tea, please," Meredith said. Derek ordered water without the lemon.

Meredith craned her head to look at the menu on the wall as the waitress walked away. Derek propped his head up with his hands and watched her with a smile, like he knew exactly what he wanted, and wanted to take the time to just... enjoy her. She wondered how many times he'd been there before that he didn't even need to glance at the menu as a reminder.

"Did you grow up here?" she asked, suddenly curious. He'd said he was from Manhattan, which was close, but so, so far from the general friendly tone of this place, she couldn't imagine him fudging it like that... It was like comparing apples to... scalpels. Or something.

"No," Derek said. "We lived in the city. After Dad died, I knew Mom wanted to move to some place quieter, but she waited until we were all out of high school."

"I'm surprised you don't have an accent."

"I worked hard to drop it when I started doing more and more consults outside the city."

The waitress returned with their drinks and took their orders, a chicken ceasar salad for her, and a garden salad with the dressing on the side for him. 

"So," she said as the waitress bounced off again. She was happy to pry, happy to dig into his life. They rarely talked about their pasts. It seemed so appropriate to do it now that they were literally surrounded with his. "What happened to your dad?"

"Ruptured brain aneurysm. One minute he was fine, and the next..."

"Was he a surgeon?"

"No, just a general practitioner. Nothing spectacular like 'The Ellis Grey' or anything," he replied, putting the words 'The Ellis Grey' in air quotes. She tried not to flinch at the mention of her mother. It wasn't like he knew anymore... She leaned her head down into her hands, gripped at the bridge of her nose with her pinched index finger and thumb.

"Do you miss him?" she asked as she looked back up. Did she miss her mom? Not really. But was that normal? She sucked at normal.

"Sometimes," he said. "I was only ten when he died, Mere. I don't... Well, I don't remember a lot..." His voice trailed away, and his expression changed as he leaned toward her minutely. "Mere?"

"Yeah?"

"I get the impression..." he began, hesitant. He took a breath. "Are you okay?"

She blinked. Something twisted inside her, something twisted with the fact that he'd noticed. Noticed her, even without her saying a word. She swallowed, almost angry that he was so in tune with her. Because she didn't want to talk about this with him. Not now. Not after that morning when she'd barely been able to keep him standing. He didn't need her dark and twisty right now. He had enough on his own. And at the rate he was remembering, he wasn't going to have much more time to... Deal.

"My mother just died," she said, her voice quiet.

"I know."

"I thought you didn't remember?"

"I don't. But she was alive when I was still with Addison... Mom said she died. It doesn't leave much of a window."

She sighed. "Everyone keeps assuming I'm not fine about it."

"Are you? Mere?"

She wanted to say it. I'm fine. She wanted to answer by rote. It's what she did. And it would stop the discussion from going where she didn't want it to go. Her mother was reasonably safe. But explaining why she felt the way she did... that ran into dangerous territory. 

But the way he was looking at her... Piercing. Concerned. He was on anti-anxiety medication, racked with his own problems, and there he was, staring at her. Like nothing mattered but her.

Stop it. Stop it. Don't say it. Say you're fine, a little voice pleaded. 

But he was looking at her... How had this conversation gone so wrong so fast?

"I don't know. I-" She paused, clamping down on the brakes a little too late to do any good. The dread from earlier began to pulse under her skin. Just a subtle throbbing. "I don't know," she finished. She dropped her gaze to her hands, which were suddenly very interesting.

His eyes narrowed. "What are you not telling me?"

"I can't," she snapped. She closed her eyes, trying not to think about how upset he'd been just hours earlier.

"Can't what?"

"Derek, I'm going to have to watch you remember it eventually... I don't want..."

"Meredith, what happened?"

Her gaze darted to the sunglasses that sat at the edge of the table by the ketchup and the sugar packets. "I don't want you to hurt," she blurted, trying not to think about the slick, wet feeling of his skin as he'd stood in her embrace and sobbed. "And if I tell you..."

"Mere... If this thing you won't talk about, this thing you keep apologizing to me for is so bad, don't you think giving me a little warning will make it hurt less?"

No. No, it would make it worse. She tried not to think about the night before when he'd sounded so broken. _I feel wrong, Mere. _ "I don't know," she said.

He sighed. "Mere..."

Trying not to think wasn't working.

"You know how when you set a bone you always say you're going to count to three, but you do the set on one, just to take the pain of the anticipation away?" she asked.

"I don't set bones."

"It's a rhetorical thing."

"Okay..."

"What if me telling you this essentially just lets you finish counting to three? You're already..." her voice fell away. In pain. On the edge. Ready to break... So many phrases drifted on the tip of her tongue.

His expression darkened. "On drugs."

"I didn't mean it like that," she said.

"Mere," he whispered. His breath hitched. Just a little. He ran his hands through his hair and let loose an agitated sigh. "Just the fact that you're getting this upset over debating what I can and can't deal with is already making me count. I'm at two. What could you have possibly done to me that's worse than what I did to you? Mere?"

She pursed her lips and leaned back in the seat. The waitress came back with their food, finally, and she set it cheerfully on the table between them, but the mere thought of eating at this point made her stomach turn. She stared at Derek, who stared back at her. She was trying to save him from being worried. But from the look on his face, it was already too late.

"Please," he whispered, his voice suddenly quiet and wretched. "Did you... Cheat?" 

"No," she snapped. "How could you say-" A hot flare of anger snarled through her, only to die away as she saw the rebuffed, distraught look on his face. Stupid, Meredith. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course that would be the first thing he would think of when she was making it out to be this horrible. "No, I didn't cheat, Derek," she said, calmer. 

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's just you're making it out to be so terrible, and I don't..."

He sighed. He sighed again, but this time the air came with a light noise of vocalization. It was what he did when he started to freak out. She could remember the sound of him, breathing at her neck when she'd come to a stop at the landing of the stairs last night. And it had been just like that, only more rapid. She swallowed against the pain at the back of her throat. She couldn't tell him, couldn't even begin to tell him, and yet, it was obvious that she couldn't not tell him either. The damage was done.

"I'm not sure if I'm fine or not about my mother, but..." she said, her voice trailing away as she watched him try to relax.

He swallowed. His head shook minutely as he went through steps to force himself back into a calm box. It was painful to watch. He'd been that close. Even with the Xanax. And it had been her fault. 

"But..." he prodded when he was finally ready.

Meredith closed her eyes, remembering. _You are anything but ordinary, Meredith. Now, run. Run..._ "She spoke to me and told me everything I wanted to hear. And she was ready to go, Derek. She wasn't upset. She just hugged me and told me to wake up..."

A noise came from his throat. Lost. She could see it on his face, the lost confusion. He didn't know where she was going with this. But back behind it all, just behind his eyes, there was also the dread. Dread that he had an idea of where it was going. An inkling. And he didn't like it. 

"Wake up?" he said.

"I drowned, Derek."

He blinked. "What?"

Plunge, plunge, take the plunge. She breathed in deeply. Trying to prepare herself, but it didn't work. He sat there, looking at her, the lost, confused look still on his face. Like he honestly thought he'd misinterpreted. Like he thought she might be trying to trick him.

"I drowned, Derek," she repeated, driving the words home. "And you're the one who pulled me out of the water. I was dead for three hours. I was dead, and I saw my mother, and she was fine. So, I don't know if I'm fine about her dying, but... I think I am. I think."

He blinked again. Blink, blink, blinked. A glassy film of water slipped across his eyes. He swallowed. He grunted, clearing his throat in with a gruff, tearing sound. "How?" he asked, his voice crushed.

"I fell in the Sound," she said. "We were triaging accident victims on-site at a ferry accident."

"But..." he said. The lost tone was back. "You can swim..."

She smiled, couldn't help but smile despite the pain, glad that at least somewhere in all the twisting, distraught memories that'd happened later, he could still remember the happy stuff from earlier on. 

She'd gone over to his trailer, just a few days after he'd told her about it. After searching everywhere, knowing he was there because his car had been parked right there, she'd found him relaxing on the dock by his lake in a lawn chair with a fishing pole and a cooler. Things had gotten a bit mischievous. She'd pushed him in. He'd done a classic fake out, pretending he was in trouble, and he'd yanked her in with him when she'd gotten close enough to the edge of the dock to try and help him. The water had been freezing, but she'd forgotten about it fairly quickly when he'd started tossing sopping items of clothing back up behind him onto the dock he'd just been pushed off of. 

"What are you doing?" she'd asked, giggling as his boxers had landed with a sucking, wet sound next to his jeans, shoes, and shirt.

"Lemons into lemonade," he'd said with a grin. "Care to join?"

She could swim. And he knew it.

Was that how he'd decided she'd given up?

"It was cold, Derek," she said. "I was shocked that I'd gotten knocked into the water. And for a second... I was so tired, I just... didn't."

"Didn't..." he prodded.

"Swim," she replied. He sat staring at her for the longest time, blinking, like he couldn't quite believe her. The look on his face was... He ran his hands through his hair again, but at least he didn't look like he was about to fall apart, not like he had before. "Say something, Derek," she pleaded.

The last blink crushed a tear out of the watery film over his eyes. Just one. It snaked down the plane of his cheek and fell to the table with a splat. "What am I supposed to say?" he said.

"I don't know," she replied, suddenly feeling helpless. He looked... Disillusioned. That's how he looked. Like he'd placed her on this pedestal, only to have it come crashing down on him. The trust. The trust. Was this how it had disappeared the first time? 

"But I'm sorry," she babbled when he remained silent. "I would have fought harder if I'd realized what it would put you through. I would have... I never... But I was just so tired. And my mother..."

He looked at his hands, a dark look overtaking him. "You were in this hole," he whispered. "This deep hole... And it seemed more insurmountable the longer you waited to climb..."

"I dragged you down with me," she finished.

For a long, glacial moment, silence hung between them. He looked up at her. "Are you... okay now?" he asked.

She sighed. "I came back thinking I was."

"But?"

"But you were really messed up, Derek... You never said it in so many words, but I think this trip to see your family was you trying to glue yourself back together. Sort of a Mom will fix it thing. And I think I may have ruined your chances at getting the Chief of Surgery job." Babble, babble, babble. She couldn't stop. Couldn't look at him. She didn't want to see the judgment there.

"Mere..."

"Though I'm still not exactly sure how. And I'm sorry, Derek. I'm more sorry than you'll ever know."

"Mere, stop," he said, his words quiet, flat. Like the gavel coming down, only to hit nerf.

"What?" she snapped, finally brought to a halt. She looked at him, but the judgment she'd expected to find just wasn't there.

He sniffled and wiped his damp cheeks with the heel of his palm. He inhaled once, twice, three times in a series of slow, calming breaths. "I can't say this doesn't upset me," he said. "Because it obviously does."

"But?"

"But... I'll try and keep it in perspective when I remember," he said. "I'll try."

She stared. He stared back. He was definitely unsettled. But he wasn't freaking out. Where was the freaking out? Where was... Everything? 

"There is no perspective, Derek," she said. "I stopped swimming, and my resultant near death..." She flailed her hands, struggling to find a word. Experience was far too banal for the freak show she'd endured. "Whatever... would give any shrink a field day. Hell, you probably think I'm nuts yourself."

He grinned at her despite the sadness creasing his face. "Meredith... I'm on tranquilizers, and you just spent thirty minutes holding me up in the shower while I cried. I don't have much room to talk about crazy. Let's just... take this as it comes."

"Your mother said that..."

"Yeah, well," he said, shrugging, "Sometimes moms have good advice."

"Not mine."

"She told you to wake up..."

"She did..." Meredith whispered. "Are you okay?"

"No," he said. "But... Well, I have a certain level of empathy. Let's say that."

"Are we okay? Are we really?"

"Sure. I'm your wingman," he said, grinning. A real grin. Bare remnants of the sad look remained. The rest had been washed away in the sudden mirth. "How can we not be okay when you have a sexy rock star for your wingman?"

"Can you even fly a plane?"

His grin widened into a full on, mischievous smile. He leaned forward and wagged his eyebrows conspiratorially. "Wouldn't you like to know..."

She laughed. "So, no?"

"I'm not telling," he said.

"I'll pry it out of you," she threatened.

"Want me to go back and get the airplane pilot glasses?" he replied. "They might be more fitting than you know!"

"Only in the cheesy, dorky sense..." she said. "If I tried to pry it out of you, I'd win..."

Derek picked up his fork and took the first bite of his salad. "I know," he replied after taking a moment to chew. He winked at her.

She started on her own food shortly after, and was delighted to find that it was quite possibly the best chicken ceasar salad she'd ever eaten.


	20. Chapter 18

**Author's Notes: Thanks again for all the reviews! I should be caught up with replies. If I missed anyone, accept my apologies. I value each and every comment I receive :) This part is shameless finale therapy. I hope you enjoy it. Since I'm not trying to keep to a daily posting schedule anymore, I'm leaving it in one chunk despite how long it is. I figured you'd rather have it all at once :) **

* * *

"Turn left here," Derek said as Meredith glanced around at all the street signs.

She grinned at him. "I'm actually starting to get to know this place," she said.

Lunch sat in his stomach, slowly digesting. He felt sated. He hadn't really eaten much in the last few days. He'd just felt so awful… He rubbed his face with his hands.

It was after two. The sun, not quite so high in the sky as earlier, actually felt worse against his eyes now that it peeked in the side windows of Kathy's Mercedes. The sunglasses helped at least, though, even with them, a dull ache had slowly been developing over the course of the last several hours. It wasn't anything like before, not like with the anxiety. No, this was just a slow-building, pinching annoyance that seemed more in tune with PCS than the stabbing, hot poker jabs he had been getting before.

He sighed. The concussion he'd gotten in the motorcycle crash hadn't been nearly so bothersome. He'd shaken it off after about a week of feeling sort of bad. Nothing close to what he'd been feeling like the last few days. Though, perhaps the discomfort of the broken ribs had clouded his perceptions of the concussion itself. That and the fact that he'd been young enough then that he'd pretty much bounced right back.

The older one got, the worse even a mild brain injury became, recovery-wise. He'd seen it countless times in patients pushing forty, pushing fifty, pushing more than that. He'd just never thought about the possibility of ending up in that position himself. And he'd never really thought of himself as old before. He wasn't. Old. Not really. But somewhere along the line, he'd hit midlife, and after everything that'd happened that year, he felt humbled enough to realize it.

He wondered how he was ever going to operate at this rate. The lights in an operating room were far, far worse than the lights that had been giving him trouble all day. He leaned his head against the glass and sighed. He couldn't wear sunglasses in surgery… His muscles started to ache, but he forced himself to loosen up.

"You okay?" Meredith asked.

"Just wondering if they make surgical sunglasses," he said, his voice tight.

"It's only been four days, Derek," she replied as she turned onto another street without even needing him to prompt her.

"I know," he said. "I was just sort of hoping that the anxiety meds would be the end of it."

She frowned. "I'm sorry you're still not feeling so great. I suck at the sick--"

"Stop saying that, Meredith," he interrupted. "You're the only thing that's making this bearable for me."

"I… Really?"

He smiled at her dumbfounded look, marveling at how just looking at her, just looking at her sitting there made the headache fade from his awareness like the receding of a tide. "I thought I was going to die last night. And you held me. I thought I was going to fall this morning. And you held me. You keep holding me up... You don't suck at the sick thing, Meredith. You don't."

"I want to make it better for you, and I can't, Derek. I can't—" 

"You did."

"But I…"

"Sometimes holding someone is enough, Meredith."

She pulled the car into the long driveway and stopped it behind the last minivan. She turned to him. A reddish blush swathed her features. He smiled as she turned, but frowned when he saw her expression. "You're saying all these nice things," she whispered, but the look on her face was worried and hopeless.

"But?" he prodded, trying to ignore the worry that had started biting at him.

"When you remember… Everything. When you remember everything. Again…"

The headache pulsed, slowly building, building. He barely noticed it at first. He opened his mouth to speak, only to get distracted by a sudden movement across the lawn.

"Rob!" Nancy shrieked as Rob stalked across the grass. He had a bag slung over his shoulders. A harsh, cherry red blush toned his cheeks, his throat, everywhere, almost making him look a little sunburned. "No, Rob. Rob, Rob, please. Don't go," she said, sobbing as she pawed at his arm.

He turned and glared at her, shaking her hand away violently as he tossed his things into his little red Miata. "I can't do this if you're going to be a shrew," he roared.

He climbed into the car and pulled it into the unoccupied lane of the driveway. He backed the car out past the minivans, past the luxury sedans, past their Mercedes, and sped away. The tires pealed against the pavement, shrieking, scarring it with blackened, angry tear tracks. The roar of the motor faded into the breeze.

Derek didn't think. He just reacted. He unclipped his seatbelt and shot out of the car. He closed the space between them as Nancy stood there, staring, horrified, at the empty space where Rob's little sports car had been. Her lip quivered as Derek jogged to her. She turned, noticing him approaching. She took one small step. Then another. She started darting away from him just as he got within swiping distance.

"Nance," Derek called. "Nance, Nance, Nancy…" He said her name over and over in a rapid-fire of vocalization, trying to get her to slow down. He reached forward and got a grip on her arm. She spun around like a yo-yo hitting the end of its string, and he curled her up in his arms as she started to sob. 

He tried to make quiet, shushing noises at her, all while he wondered what exactly was going on. What was Rob so upset about that he would bail with his luggage in tow? Over Nancy's shoulder, he saw Meredith get out of the car. She had a concerned look on her face. She mouthed something at him, something that might have been, "Good luck," before she disappeared up the walk and into the house, leaving him alone with a sobbing Nancy on the front lawn.

Nancy clutched at his shirt, pulled tents of it into a tight death grip. "I can't do this anymore," she whispered.

He rubbed her back. "Do what?" 

"I can't, I can't, I can't…" 

"Shhh," he soothed, but it was the wrong thing to do, apparently. Her fists were suddenly pelting him, buffeting his chest weakly as she attempted to push away. He tried to catch her wrists, and she tried to jerk away, all in what probably looked like some sort of strange tango.

"You're so fucking perfect," she hissed. "Stop it. Stop it!"

"What?" 

"Your wife cheats on you, but you still end up smelling like a fucking rose…" 

"Nancy…"

"No, no," Nancy said, shaking her head. "You don't get it. You don't get to talk down to me. You have the love of your life. Another one. And you… brought her here. And…" She blinked. Anger bubbled on her skin in a hot, fierce blush. She panted. And then it all got sucked away in another racking sob. 

"Shhh…" he soothed, pulling her back against him. 

"I don't get to try with someone new, Der," she said as he rubbed her back. "I have kids. I have kids, and there is no love of my life waiting in the wings. Rob is it, Derek. And it's ruined." 

He swallowed. "What happened?" 

"I found him. With..." her voice trailed away, small and lost, as if she simply couldn't admit it fully. He didn't blame her. 

"Oh, Nancy…" he said, groaning as dread poured down behind his heart and gripped it in a tight, clenching fist. He clutched her as she started to sob with low, throaty, painful sobs. He never would wish what he'd experienced with Mark on anyone. He rubbed her back, up and down, up and down.

"I tried to forget about it," she cried.

_Mark, Mark, Mark,_ Addison had moaned…

He held Nancy, trying to think of something to say, anything, but there was nothing. Nothing that would make it all right. Meredith was the only thing that had made it even remotely bearable. He couldn't very well say don't worry, you'll meet someone in a bar.

"But I can't do it," Nancy sobbed. "I can't, I can't, I can't…"

She let him hug her, let him be comforting, even as the scenery started to revolve around him. He blinked, trying to make it go away.

"Get off," she whispered. "Get off, get off, get off!" she hissed as the fury came back. She pushed off of him, making him stumble, blink, blink slowly. He tried to regain his bearings as she snarled at him. Things were slowing down. "You're so perfect. You're so, so perfect, and I hate you. I hate you, Derek."

He pushed his fingers up under the sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. "Nancy, I'm about as far from perfect as…" His voice broke. He swallowed. "You think anything about this last year has been easy for me?" he asked tiredly. Weight pressed on his shoulders.

"Your slutty intern certainly has been," Nancy hissed. "Everyone heard you yesterday morning. You have a fucking head trauma, Derek. And you're still getting laid."

The world froze and a white-hot spear of rage slammed into the back of his throat. He could deal with being insulted. He could deal with it. Nancy was distraught, she was distraught and she was his sister, and he could deal with taking her abuse. He'd done it countless times before. She was prone to lashing out after she bottled things up for too long, and not necessarily at a deserving target. Just like him. But…

"Take it back," he said.

Nancy laughed, but it was a bitter, tearing sound. "Take what back?" 

"She's not slutty." 

"Oh," Nancy huffed. "So, you're not denying the sex this time."

He bit back on the rush of bile as it came up from his stomach. "Nancy, I don't even know where to start with you right now. I don't even… I--" His voice fell away from him as something in the back of his head started to throb, something cold and dark and close to snapping. Why did Nancy have to do this? 

"Where's the perfect words, Derek?" Nancy taunted. "Say them to me. Say something. Be your perfect self." 

"Why are you taking this all out on me?" he whispered as he clutched at the bridge of his nose. As if taking that small concession for a victory, the roaring ache in his head began to throb, throb, throb with a vengeance, and the bright, bright sun started to tease him with its bitter, unrelenting smile. He couldn't stop the quiet, breathy groan before it slipped away from him. 

"Oh, are you going to play the anxiety card now?" Nancy said. "Get off it, Derek."

_Just leave me alone…_

"Nancy, I'm not…" he said. He gasped as he started to feel queasy. Meredith. Black dress. _Just leave me alone…_ What had been next? "I'm not trying to play any cards at all…" He bit back on a moan. His body shivered with the force of his denial.

She didn't notice. 

_You are looking at me. And you watch me._ Not just a dress. A black evening gown. Plunging neck. Showed her cleavage as she yelled at him…

"Addison practically groveled for you. Everyone wants you." Nancy's lip quivered. Behind the blur of it all, he saw her starting to break down again. "Why doesn't anyone want me?" she asked.

He reached out with a trembling hand and pulled her back against him, hugging her, even as he felt his insides roil. Too bright, too bright, too bright, they said. He closed his eyes and sighed against her. The sun felt hot, hot, hot against his skin. "It's okay," he said. His hands started to shake. His legs started to shake. He shuffled, trying to keep his footing.

_I can't breathe with you looking at me like that, so just stop!_

"Get off me," Nancy whispered, but she didn't push away.

_She doesn't drive me crazy… She doesn't make it impossible for me to feel normal…_

He'd kissed her after that. Kissed her, pushed her up against the exam table, slipped his pants down and run her through…

"It's okay," he whispered again, but it ended in a weak, sick groan, and suddenly he was leaning on her more than she was leaning on him. He was leaning on her, and then the ground was rushing up, rushing up, rushing up, and he couldn't stop it.

"Der?" his sister asked as he began to fall. "Der!" she snapped when the fall continued. "Derek!" Nancy shrieked, clawing at him, but it was too late. He found himself staring at the sky, blinking, stunned, wondering if the salad he'd eaten was going to come up. It didn't, but he wished it would because it might stop the awful churning.

Nancy's index fingers rested against his neck as she felt for his pulse. He lifted a hand to push her away but it flopped useless at his side when he breathed again and the world spun. He felt like a livewire, twitching. "It's too bright," he said, barely able to force the words out.

The front door opened and the slams of many footsteps rushing down the walk hit his eardrums behind the distant roar. Meredith, Chris, and John floated in a blur against the cerulean sky and the white fluffy clouds. "I'm sorry," Nancy stuttered. "I thought he was…" Nancy looked up. She clutched a tent of his shirt in her trembling fingers. "Faking. I thought…" 

"Faking it?" Meredith snapped. "Look, I don't care what your trauma is, Nancy. He has a concussion. He hit his head against a steering wheel, his brain slammed into his skull going at least fifty miles an hour, and you think he's faking it? I don't know what the hell kind of sibling rivalry thing you have going on, but get the fuck off your high horse and leave him alone. He was only trying to help you. God only knows why with the abuse you've been heaping on him."

Derek blinked again, stunned enough that following Meredith's words was a challenge. He swallowed as Chris and John leaned over him. Strong hands yanked up under his armpits, and suddenly he was upright, fighting to catch up with the situation. They started dragging him forward, and his feet made him follow more out of habit than any conscious control. "Fainted…" he whispered.

Meredith's gaze softened as she turned to Derek, walking backwards as Chris and John helped him along. "I think so, Derek. How do you feel, now?"

They pulled him through the door, fumbled with him over to the couch, and let him collapse against it in a vague repeat of his first homecoming. Someone brought him a cool glass of water. Someone else drew the blinds shut, plunging him in comforting darkness. Meredith pulled his sunglasses off and set them on the table. He sighed. Why couldn't he calm down? Why not, why not, why not… He had a thought. A thought. A thought.

There it was. "I missed a dose," he said. He had planned on taking it as soon as he walked in the door…

"It's three. You were supposed to take one at two, weren't you?" Meredith said.

"Yeah," Derek said, inhaling. "Yeah." 

Meredith looked up behind the couch at someone. He couldn't see who. "I remembered," he said. He raised his hands to run through his hair, only to tense up even more when he found that they had started to tremble again. He breathed, making a small sound. "Remembered prom. You… We…"

"Yeah, Derek. We definitely did. Breathe for a minute. Nancy went upstairs to get your pills. You're only an hour late. You can take one instead of waiting." She brushed her hands through his hair. 

"Okay," he replied, closing his eyes, trying to stop himself from the shivery, nauseating feeling of his muscles twitching out of control with tension. He forced himself to calm down, only to drift off into space for a moment and realize when he came back from it that everything was tightening up again. He rolled into the couch and sighed against the soft pillow, relishing the dark, cool feeling as he burrowed deeper. Meredith ran her hand in calming, soothing, circular motions along his back. He swallowed, swallowed, swallowed against the queasy, churning feeling.

"Leave Uncle Derek alone, guys. He's not feeling well," he heard Kathy say in the distance. Disappointed mumbles bounced around in his head. His mother asked something. Meredith replied. He lost track of the conversation. He had the vague sense of adults hovering over him. Adults that weren't Meredith.

Why wouldn't this go away? He knew about the problem now. He knew he was working himself up over things he just couldn't help, like wondering when the next piece of his life would slam into him, wondering what the next horrible thing he'd done was. He knew it, and he still couldn't make himself relax.

Meredith… she'd scared him. At lunch. She'd scared him a lot. He felt a certain level of detachment now. Having a horrific event described versus actually seeing it happen were two vastly different things. He'd wrapped his mind around the fact that she'd died. The serious look on her face had forced him to get a grip on it. She'd looked so distraught, like she expected him to break with the news. But he'd barely wrapped his mind around the fact. The fact. Not the bitter, Technicolor reality that he was sure would bowl him over. She was so worried what he'd think when he remembered. She was so worried, and that made him worried, and it was all just too much.

She'd given up. And she'd drowned. And he'd been the one to rescue her from the water.

He knew what drowning victims looked like, what hypothermia victims looked like. Cold, waxy, wet, and dead. Blue and waterlogged. He couldn't even picture Meredith that way. It was like this nebulous concept. Meredith dead. Meredith drowned. Meredith in his arms, dead and drowned.

He couldn't picture it.

But he knew the picture would be bad.

He knew he was getting closer, too. Knew his ability to recount the events of the last year was slowly advancing, the fact that he was lying on this couch in a sick mess quite firm evidence of the fact. Prom. He'd had sex with Meredith at prom. He'd cheated on Addison at prom. Prom, prom, prom. Adulterer, adulterer, adulterer. He wished the rest of the year would just hit him already. Hit him and be done with it so he could start digging through the shambles of the person he thought he was and try to find something he'd done that was good.

Nancy returned. He heard her sigh somewhere overtop him, muffled by the cottony weight of the pillows he hid under.

"I'm so sorry, Derek," she whispered as he rolled back out of his cocoon and blinked at them. Nancy's gaze darted to Meredith. She blinked. Small tears spilled as she handed him his pill bottle. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I didn't mean to make it worse. I didn't… I am a shrew. I am. I deserved…"

"Nobody deserves to be cheated on," Derek muttered as he crunched up into a sitting position and took the proffered glass of water from Meredith.

Nancy didn't reply. She sniffled, a little shivery nod telling him at least she'd heard him if not digested his words. And then she disappeared, leaving him alone in the quiet dark with Meredith. He wanted to chase after Nancy, to tell her it was okay, that it wasn't her fault that Rob had cheated. But he felt. So. Awful. He swallowed the pill.

He leaned back against the sofa with a heaving sigh. He covered his face with his hands, sighed again, and slowly drew his palms back over his forehead, over the bumps of his stitches, back against his scalp, tearing his fingers through his hair. He dropped his arms to his sides and sat, his head bent back as he stared vaguely at the ceiling. Meredith sat with him, rubbing his chest until the drug started to sink in and the shivery, weird, unsettling feelings faded.

"I think it's working," he said after long, silent minutes. His muscles had loosened gradually in a slow journey from rigid to lax, slow enough that he hadn't noticed the progression, only the result. Suddenly, thinking about all the awful things that might be coming down memory lane in a speeding, out-of-control bus warranted more of an informed, prepared what comes will come mentality than shaky, quivery worry. That was a relief, but… It still felt immensely odd to him that a little pill was figuring out how he was supposed to deal with things.

He shook his head against the thoughts rattling around in his skull.

"Feel better?" Meredith said.

"Yeah," he replied, frowning, unsettled. "Well, I think this definitively confirms weaning me off this stuff right now is a bad idea. An hour late on a dose and I've already almost degenerated into a panic attack."

"I think you're exaggerating a little," she said with a wry smile. "And you had every reason to be a little stressed right then. I watched from the house, Derek. And you dealt with a memory at the same time?"

He sighed. He had been exaggerating a little. That had been nowhere near a panic attack, however uncomfortable it had been. "Rob cheated on her, Meredith. I've known Rob for years. I never thought..."

He stood up as his voice fell away. Blinking, he reached forward to grab his sunglasses. He felt steady again. Fine, really. Except for the thoughts that ate at him. His face curled into a scowl before he could stop it. "I should put these away," he said, gesturing to the sunglasses.

Meredith looked at him, an odd frown creasing her face, but she stood and followed him as he trudged up the steps. He had a vague awareness of her, thumping along behind him, giving him space, but not letting him run off, which on one hand, made him smile, and on the other hand… He wasn't sure. He wandered into their bedroom and stood there, idle, staring in the middle of the floor at nothing in particular, the sunglasses clutched forgotten in his hands. The door closed behind them, and Meredith's hands slipped around his waist.

"You're starting to do the internalizing thing again, Derek," she whispered into his back as she ran her palms along his stomach. "Stop it. You can't do this right now."

A wry, whuffing, ironic laugh fell from his lips before he could stop himself. He turned around to face her.

"I cheated on Addison," he said.

Meredith blinked. "Yes," she said, calm and collected. If she was surprised by the subject, surprised or jealous, she did a bang up job of hiding it, and once again he found himself wondering what the hell he'd done to deserve her, especially after everything he'd done to her. 

"She found your panties in my coat pocket," he said.

"Yes." 

"I didn't mean to cheapen it like that."

"It wasn't cheap, Derek. It was just…"

"I cheated on her. I cheated, Meredith. After everything." He sighed. "How did I become that person?" he asked.

"It's okay." 

"It's not okay, Meredith," he growled as he pulled out of her embrace and started to pace, pace, pace like some sort of caged animal. "Every time I think I have a handle on things again, I do something even worse. What's next? Do I start skinning puppies?"

She sat down on the edge of the bed and watched him as he prowled along the edges of the room. "You divorced her, Derek. Quickly. It's not the same." 

"It is the same, Meredith. I cheated. It doesn't matter why or who with. I hate this year. I hate it. I hate it." By the end, he was snapping, yelling, shaking with the anger of the words. He felt dirty. Dirty and wrong and… How had things gotten to be this way? How had he let himself become such an awful person?

"It's okay," Meredith said. 

"It's not. It's not okay."

"It's okay," she said, her voice forceful, definitive, sure… How could she be so sure about something that was so utterly wrong, something that had demeaned her so, so much? 

"It's not," he barked back at her. "I made you into a cheap affair. I should have left Addison before I let it get so bad that I couldn't fucking keep myself off of you. I should have…" He stopped in his tracks, panting, as if he'd suddenly forgotten why he was walking and where. Should have, should have, should have. Was there anything he would remember that he'd done right? Anything? 

"But you didn't, Derek. And it's done. At least we stopped kidding ourselves…" 

"But I knew," he whispered. "I knew I was kidding myself for months. And I didn't lift a finger." 

"Derek?" 

"I told Addison before I told you," he said as he walked over to the bed and sat beside her, curling over his knees, killed with the lancing, ugly spear of guilt. "At Christmas, I told her I loved you. I admitted it at Christmas, but it took me months, still, to admit it to you." 

"I…" Meredith whispered, but her voice cut away into silence. She leaned down with him until she was eyelevel, and they were both curled over against their knees. 

He turned to her. "I'm sorry." 

"You've been saying that a lot," she whispered. 

"Yeah, well," he said, fingering the sunglasses that still loitered in his hands. "I seem to be a jerk under all this sexy rock star…" 

"You're not a jerk, Derek," she said. Her hand slipped up and down his back. "Well, sometimes you're a jerk. But…"

He raised an eyebrow. "But what?" 

She grinned. "But you're my jerk."

He chuckled. "Hopelessly, completely. Thank you." 

"For what?" 

"Saving me." 

She smiled. Her gray eyes softened, squinting at the corners as she took the sight of him into her mind. She blinked, slow. Her long brown lashes swept down against her cheeks. When she looked at him again, the world behind her faded into a blur. Her slightly freckled skin focused in a sharp, sharp crush of clarity. She leaned in close, until his nose was millimeters from her own. Closer still, and they touched and slid. She stared, unblinking, unwavering. Lavender. She always smelled like lavender. It made him dizzy with a haze of want, and the clarity fell away into something much more confusing, much more consuming. Something… perfect.

"I love you," he said, speaking against her lips, which hovered just a hair's width from his own.

"I love you, too," she replied.

She kissed him, long and deep, and what little remained of his worries melted away from him like ice cubes on a sweltering day. She licked the line of his upper lip as she pressed her body into his, her curves, her warmth, up against him in a grind. The sunglasses fell to the floor with a thump as her hand ran over his hip and slipped under the waist of his jeans. He bent his knee up against her hip and pulled them down onto the bed.

They writhed against each other as they scooted up, up, until they could lay themselves out completely without hanging off the edge. He kicked his shoes off. Shoes were just stupid obstacles. She followed suit with a laugh. He splayed his fingers and ran his palms up under her shirt. She panted, and her skin swelled up against his hands with each breath. She was hot. She lifted her arms above her head and his roaming trip from her navel to her shoulders took her shirt with it. He slipped it up over her head.

"We have to be quiet," she whispered as he unclasped her bra.

He ran his thumbs over her nipples and she leaned back with a whine. Her thin fingers dug into the small of his back. Her nails bit in, but he didn't care.

"I can be quiet," he murmured against the skin of her neck. He worked his lips down along the line of her clavicle. He loved her clavicle. It was a lovely piece of anatomy. Fit for… biting. She moaned. And licking. She groaned. And teasing… She twitched, and a little throaty growl came loose from her throat. "Can you?" he said.

She hissed and yanked his shirt up over his head as he laughed. "Your sisters all heard us on Tuesday. Your mother. Aren't you at least a little embarrassed?" she asked.

"Meredith, we're adults. They're adults. They have kids, so they obviously know about sex. It's not like—" His voice fell away as the dull pop of a button flying open hit his eardrums, and she reached under the waistline of his jeans again, except this time, it wasn't over his hip. Her fingers slipped down and wrapped around him. He groaned before he could stop it.

"I can be quiet," she whispered as she stroked the underside of his length. "Can you?"

"Mere," he moaned, unable to help himself from rolling up against her. She released him and gripped his hips, peeling his pants and boxers down in one smooth, quick motion.

He splayed his palms against her navel and slipped down under her pants, reaching down into the slick warmth between her thighs. He rubbed his thumb in a slow, counterclockwise circle, round, round, and around until she purred, mewled, whined at him with desirous, lusty sounds that made him wish he could push her back against the bed, give up with the slow and sensual, and take her, take her, take her. He clenched his jaw and forced it down into the pit of himself, forced it away. She was so beautiful that looking at her made him hurt inside, hurt with twisting, unrelenting want.

"You don't want to play this game with me," he whispered.

"Derek," she moaned.

"I'm very competitive," he growled as he withdrew his hands and yanked her pants down. She whined at him, but he slammed his body up against her and crushed her in a kiss that took her pleading away, deep into the back of his throat, curling, winding, twisting down against his vocal cords.

"Very," he whispered, kissing her lips. "Very." He put his hands on her hips and dipped. "Competitive." He pushed up into her.

She clenched. Her slick, wet heat tightened around him, and he gasped as the roar of everything he'd pulled back inside himself swung up with a kidney punch. Take her, take her, take her, it demanded. His deep, deep well of sexual patience seemed to be abandoning him ever so slowly. His muscles tensed as he fought not to give in to the drive to push, push, push and lose himself in the electricity of her gaze.

She smiled at him with a sly grin. "If you were expecting me to whimper just then, think again," she said between pants. She clutched his shoulders and pushed, rolled, flipping their positions around. "You, on the other hand, are in trouble already."

She slid her pelvic bone up against him and twisted her lower body in a figure-eight pattern that had him leaning back against the pillows, gulping down a groan. He wanted to flip her on her back and take her, take her, take her. And he was losing the battle already. Minutes, and he was losing. Her fingers ran like fire along his abdomen. She leaned flat against him and curled in a wave of motion. Her chest came up as her lower body dipped. She kissed his jaw line, snaking her tongue along the underside of his chin.

"I'm winning," she whispered as he degenerated into a throaty mess of sounds that weren't exactly quiet. She did the figure-eight thing again, which sent him arching back against the sheets. Take her, take her, take her slowly melted into what, what, what?

Sense, sense, sense, where had it gone? She made her mistake when she paused for a moment. He took the hint of clarity and latched onto it like a barnacle before it could leave him in the blur again. He grinned as he rolled them back over.

"I was just letting you have a head start," he said. Take her, take her, take her. His lower body twisted and tightened, threatening to make him hurt if he didn't start to do something, anything to satisfy the slow burn of lust. He gripped her legs and bent them up toward her head as he pushed into her and started to thrust.

"Do you like it deep?" he said, panting as he ran her through again and again and again. The whine in his brain became a beating chorus, beating on his skull, forcing him along. She was his addiction.

She started to twitch against him as if she couldn't stop herself. "Derek, Derek," she panted his name like it was a religion. He smiled as he came down on her again and again, smiled into the blur of moving bodies and sweat and heat and... Lavender.

"Say my name," he hissed.

She clamped her mouth shut, bit her lip, even as she bucked against him in the little jerky motions that said she was going to finish soon if he kept his assault up. Her breaths came in quiet, high-pitched gasps. Her eyes started to roll back. Her face scrunched up in a frustrated rictus that said she was on the cliff, ready to go, if he would just…

He stopped. The whine in his head became a bitter screaming. He trembled with the force of holding himself still. Trembled. Panting racked his frame.

"Derek!" she yelled in frustration. She arched into him and flailed against the sheets. Her fingers scrabbled at his slick skin, unable to get any sort of purchase, so gripped was she by the mindlessness of it all.

"Very competitive, see?" he said, clenching his jaw so hard it hurt. Holding still hurt. He wanted, wanted, wanted her. Wanted. Needed. He started to twitch with the need to move, but again, he forced it down, forced it away.

She grabbed his shoulders. "Oh, it's on, now, you evil, evil man," she growled. They laughed despite the mutual frustration as they swapped again.

"Remember tip number four?" she asked, her smile innocent as she rocked against him, slowly at first, building, building.

He frowned. He remembered. "You can't use that. That wouldn't be fair."

She grinned. "Well, I won't. But it was preceded by tip number three."

"And that was?" he asked.

She reached behind with her finger and ran it down underneath him, pressing on the spot she'd found before to stop him from releasing. His whole body racked with an intense shudder as the heat of pleasure spiked through him. His mouth fell open and he moaned. Every painful, shaking thought of take her, take her, take her exploded, obliterated into dust, and all that remained was a mindless, senseless, moaning lust.

"This spot isn't just for stopping you," she said, grinning as she began to rub her index finger up and down in light, even strokes along the line of skin.

The world peeled away from him. He couldn't hold still. Couldn't… Thoughts. Gone. He yelled. He actually yelled. Not just a little growl. It shook his entire chest. Vibrated his body. He arched back against the pillows as she did that figure-eight thing again on top of a particularly long, harsh stroke with her finger.

"Mere, Mere, Mere, you're cheat--" he growled, but his voice left him. He clawed at her, unable to think straight. His nostrils flared as he fought to suck down enough air to do something like speak, but all that did was give him more fuel to moan with. She rubbed and stroked and petted. Everything left his realm of awareness but her, and he might have been yelling some more, but damned if he knew how to stop it.

She leaned down against him, lifted her finger away as she slid up against his torso, her slick, naked skin grinding against his. He groaned as torturous waves of shivery pleasure ceased and left him bereft, confused, addled. Her sweat-glazed face hovered inches over his. She smiled. "It's not cheating. It's not my fault you have such a sensitive g-spot."

It took him a moment to form a thought. It took him longer to form a word. Several tries, in fact. Take her, take her, take her came jutting back into the din. "I'm going to make you scream," he panted. "You're the screamer."

He rolled them over again. "You're in denial, Derek," she said with a laugh, but it quickly fell away into a shortened, biting gasp as he pulled out of her and slipped his finger up inside her. He curled it back toward himself, rubbing against the front wall of her. She was slick and wet and suddenly moaning.

"G-spot?" he said. "I'll show you g-spot." He rubbed the inside of her, rubbed and massaged, and she was back to a mewling, throaty, sobbing mess in moments.

He slipped a second finger in, ignoring the synapses firing in his brain, telling him to skip the foreplay, telling him to push back in and go for it. Go, go, go, go, go, go his brain whined at him. His brain was a stupid thing, he decided, panting, racked with tremors as he fought not to jerk and thrust into the air like some sort of rutty teenager.

He curled his fingers again. Her eyes glazed with desirous panic. "Derek. Derek," she pleaded, sputtering, gasping. She shivered, twitched, shivered, twitched. "That's really cheating. You're not even…" He yanked up against her so harshly that she flailed. "Inside," she shrieked.

He smiled. "I told you I'd make you scream," he said.

"Dirty pool," she whispered, moaning as he slowed down again.

"Oh, all right," he said. He pulled his hand away, trying not to show her what a relief it was for him as well.

"No, don't," she replied breathlessly.

"Don't what?" he growled as he scooted up against her and slid up to the hilt again, drew out, slid up, drew out.

"Stop," she pleaded.

He paused.

"Don't stop," she managed, yelling at him, yelling. She grabbed his ass and yanked him into her, violently. Her fingers slid down and clutched his hamstrings so fiercely it hurt. She wrapped her legs around behind him.

"Truce?" she said, panting as she held him up against her, clenching, squeezing around him.

"Okay," he replied, blinking against the fire, the need, the blinding everything that was crunching his thoughts up one by one and spitting them out, unused.

"Good, because I think I'm losing my mind."

He gasped. "Mine is gone… Gone already."

They stopped talking then. Finally stopped teasing each other, teasing themselves. He let himself loose to pound and pound and pound, building her up, though not much building was required at that point. Her legs flexed against his lower back. He arched back and sighed, gasped, moaned at the flex and grind of it all. It was a rutting, desperate, violent finish to what had started mostly playful. The friction built and built. He held himself in, forced himself not to release until he heard her moaning beneath him. Her hands pawed weakly at his chest. She pushed against him mid-writhe, flipped them again so she was back on top before he had a chance to realize what was happening. She put her finger back along the spot she'd found, rubbing, stroking.

Any resistance he could have provided died, and orgasm hit him like a freight train full of bricks. His vision blurred as he exploded. He pawed for the headboard, flailing for something to hold on to, anything as he started to fall into a mindless blur, but he missed, and he fell back against the bed, shaking, twitching, yelling, yelling, roaring.

The blur resolved after just a moment, but the shaking didn't. She sat on top of him, sweaty, covered in a blush of lust. Satisfaction hooded her smoky, sexed expression. She ran her hands up and down his chest, soothing as the shaking subsided. He blinked, tried to catch his breath. His throat felt sore. Thoughts were gone. And he felt absolutely, undeniably, completely sated. He never wanted to move again.

Never.

She leaned against him, breathing softly. The scent of lavender tickled at his nose, barely noticeable after the sensory overload he'd just received. Her lips, millimeters from his left ear, tickled him with a soft release of air.

"I win," she whispered.

He was too dumbfounded to argue. 


	21. Chapter 19

It seemed peaceful enough. No voices, child, adult, or otherwise, rumbled up from downstairs. No crashes or thumps of small or large movement made the door thud against its hinges with buffets of passing air. The house seemed almost empty, well, from her vantage point, at least, which wasn't much of a vantage point.

Meredith lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, listening to Derek's deep, even breathing. The overhead fan blurred into a mess of rich, lacquered brown against the white painted ceiling as she let her focus wane. In and out and in and out, he breathed. Each one was heavy and full and throaty, but it wasn't snoring. It was just… him. Breathing.

Under other circumstances, it would have been a beautiful sound. Rare were the times that she was awake when he was not, and she usually relished it when it happened. He had a certain peacefulness about him when he slept that he just didn't have when he was awake. She'd always wondered if the difference was a recent product of his transition to Seattle. Perhaps life had punched him one time too many with Mark for him to retain that relaxed look when he was awake. Regardless, the difference was there.

She rolled to face him. He lay on his back as well, naked under the sheet, which came to a wrinkled, uneven stop just under his bellybutton. He was sprawled. His left hand stopped just shy of her side, but he was utilizing every bit of the mattress he could rightfully claim as his. His right hand ran haphazardly over the side, dangling his fingers down toward the box spring.

And he breathed.

It would have been a beautiful sound. It would have been.

Except they had just had rutting sex that had probably been loud enough to knock walls down. She was under no illusions this time that when she walked out of that door, she wouldn't receive looks. Looks. She felt like the little kid with her hand clutched around a cookie. Everyone would know where the cookie came from. It was just sort of, well, duh.

The fact that Derek could be relaxed enough to do the breathing peaceful thing was simply not fair. She wanted to get up, wanted to leave. She wasn't really tired at all. Sated yes, but after a few minutes of recovery dozing, she had been fine. And forcing herself to take a nap when she kept imagining the looks… Well, that was just not happening.

She'd gotten dressed, hoping he'd have finished dozing by then, but no such luck. She glanced at the clock and sighed. He had been fine. Fine enough to do the crazy sexathon challenge. This couldn't be concussion exhaustion… Could it? She bit back on the little stab, stab, stab of guilt. He could live without a precious nap long enough to walk downstairs and save her from the wolves.

"Derek, wake up," she said.

He twitched. "Mmm," he mumbled, but then resettled. 

"Wake up!" she said with a little more force.

That got him. He inhaled, deep and slow, and then let it out. For a moment, he was silent. "What?" he said, not opening his eyes. 

"You've been asleep for thirty minutes, Derek."

He groaned and rolled over, throwing the pillow over his head as he re-sprawled on his stomach. He sighed, the act of it racking his entire frame, before muttering something unintelligible from underneath the pillow, something that could have been, "Go away," but maybe not.

She yanked the pillow off his head. "I can't!"

He lay there with his cheek pasted against the mattress, his face mashed up, which curled his lip to the point that it looked almost laughable. He blinked, blinked, blinked. "Why?" he said. He scraped his face with his hand as he slowly rolled onto his back again.

"Because I'm not going near your family without you as a human shield."

"What happened?"

She wanted to shake him. Her muscles clenched in frustration, but she restrained herself. "The noise? Hello? We just did a statewide broadcast that we were having sex."

"Okay," he said with a sigh. But he didn't move. His eyes started to drift shut.

She found herself frowning at him as his breathing started to deepen again. He was really out of it. Which meant whatever she'd yanked him awake from hadn't been just a simple doze. "I'm sorry," she whispered as his head started to dip to the side. "I'll leave you alone. I thought you were just doing your lazy after sex thing…"

He jerked awake and made a strange sputtering noise. "I am not lazy after sex!" He groaned and scrubbed his face and blinked and stretched like he was trying to force himself out of hibernation.

She laughed. "You so are, Derek. You're such a guy."

He stood up and went searching for his jeans. "It's a biological imperative," he insisted as he bent over and yanked them up to his waist in a swift motion that showed off his flexing shoulders. He had great shoulders…

"Right," she said with a smile as she watched him glance around and then head for his shirt, which had somehow gotten way over into the corner of the room by the left window.

"You try having sex with moving parts and see how well you recover afterward," he grumbled.

He stumbled a little as he drew his navy-colored t-shirt up from the floor. He bent back up in time for her to see him try to stifle a yawn that ended up cracking his jaws open wide enough that she was reminded of a roaring lion. He paused, recovered, and started trying to flip the shirt right side out. A look of consternation spread across his face when the shirt tangled, and he seemed almost unable to figure out why it wouldn't untwist.

"I'm sorry. You can sleep, Derek," she said with a frown, growing more and more worried that she'd actually ripped him out of some sort of healing sleep. "If you're tired. I really didn't mean to drag you out of an actual nap." Just because he was up for a round of sex didn't mean he was back to being ready to conquer the world or anything. And he did have a tendency to push himself beyond reasonable limits.

He pulled the shirt over his head. "I'll live," he said.

"Derek…"

He stalked over to his shoes. "I think it's the Xanax. I feel really cottony." 

"Oh," she said as he started lacing up his cross trainers. Well, that would explain why he was suddenly so vehement about waking up… She frowned.

He sat down on the bed next to her and heaved a sigh that degenerated into a frustrated growl. He ran his hands through his hair. When he looked up again, he had a genuine smile on his face. "Well," he said. "At least it didn't mess with my libido. I think I'd take panic attacks over no sex."

She laughed. "So, what do we tell your family?

He shrugged. "What makes you think we'll have to tell them anything?"

"You're kidding, right?" she asked, incredulous. "So, help me, Derek, if I have to discuss the birds and the bees with your army of nieces and nephews, I'm going to do it by throwing you to the wolves and watching you stutter."

"My throat is kind of sore," he said.

"See? We made noise. Lots. Oh, god. Every little bit of progress I was making is probably gone. Nancy already thinks I'm slutty. Your mother… I think she might have been starting to like me before this. She hugged me! Granted, you were maybe dying at the time. Is she prone to hugging in times of immense emotional stress? I wouldn't take it personally. Maybe someone was magically vacuuming downstairs and nobody heard. Would we get that lucky? Then again, you have a rare form of retrograde amnesia, and I've died once before, so I guess we're not really that lucky. No, no, I think I'm doomed, Derek. Doomed to be the woeful outcast in a family of beautiful people. Sarah is irrationally pretty, by the way. Does she model in her spare time?"

She looked at him. He blinked, staring at her with his jaw hanging slightly open. "Did you even take a breath?" he asked after a long, silent moment.

"Possibly," she said. Then she collapsed over her knees and groaned. "I suck at the family thing."

He rubbed her back. "Mere, you need to relax. You're not slutty, Mom hugs people she likes, I agree our luck is awful, but you're not doomed, Sarah doesn't model, you're doing great at the family thing, and don't worry."

They both stood. "Don't worry, he says," she groused as they pushed out of the room and into the hallway.

They walked down the steps. Stewart sat on the couch, socked feet propped up on the coffee table, a beer popped open and clasped in one hand. He got one look at them and started roaring with laughter. "You guys are **so** lucky that Ellen was out sweeping the deck for the barbecue… Sarah ran interference to keep her out there. You owe Sarah big, man," he said.

Stewart tilted back his beer and took a large, manly gulp that belied his wiry frame. His pronounced Adam's apple ripped down his long, thin neck as he swallowed. Stewart had a narrow, pointy face. His floppy, straight, black hair, which was about shoulder length, made him look a little gaunt since his face was already long. He was tall and gangly enough that Meredith immediately found herself thinking giraffe. Big, friendly giraffe. Who apparently drank beers like Cristina dealt with doors. One big slam.

Stewart put the empty beer bottle on a coaster on the coffee table.

Derek grinned. "See? We Shepherds are a well oiled machine," he said.

Kathy walked into the foyer. She took one look at them and started roaring with laughter. Meredith was starting to notice a trend. "Derek," she said between pants, "You look… None the worse for wear."

"Thanks, Kath," Derek said. "I'm fine."

He tried to push past her and head into the kitchen, but Kathy held up her hand against his chest. "Not so fast, buster. You have to do some penance, this time. Your freebie was on Tuesday."

He blinked. Meredith snickered. "What?" Derek said.

"Meredith," Kathy said with a mischievous smile, "Why don't you go out and help in the back? Derek's been appointed spokesperson."

"Spokesperson for what?" Derek asked as Kathy grabbed his shirt into a tent and dragged him toward the den. Meredith watched, bemused, until they disappeared around the corner.

When Meredith walked out onto the deck, she finally discovered why there had been almost no one in the house, no noise in the house. Everyone was out in the backyard running this way and that, doing various yard-centric errands, except Ellen, who sat on the deck, reading a book in one of the lawn chairs under an umbrella, apparently oblivious to all the mayhem going on around her. John looked like he was firing up the grill. Sarah grunted as she lugged a rather large boom box to the edge of the deck. Chris followed behind with the first speaker in what looked like it would be a large set. It was a big, boxy thing, larger than the boom box itself.

"Where does this go?" Natalie asked as she ran past with an extension cord.

Most of the children were notably absent. Meredith frowned. "What's going on?" she asked into the din. For a minute, she thought nobody had even noticed her, and she felt tiny and quiet in the midst of a great, familial behemoth. She rocked back on her feet, trying to ignore the sudden clammy, chilly feeling that swathed her skin. Stupid to think she could be part of--

"We're doing the barbecue tonight," Stewart said as he strode up behind her, fresh beer in hand. He slugged it back and poured the whole thing down his throat. When he righted himself, he let loose his breath in a relaxed, sated hiss as he bounced on his feet like he was warming up for a jog. "We usually do it on the first night after everyone is settled, but it got bumped back because of Derek."

Meredith raised an eyebrow. "The… barbecue?" 

"Yes," Stewart said. He looked her up and down with a roving, practiced eye. She felt her cheeks redden under the unabashed scrutiny. She wondered if he liked what he saw. But then he surprised her when he gave her a toothy, dorky-looking grin and said, "How good are you at capture the flag? Derek sucks. You look like you'd be a feisty little jail guard, though. The tiny ones are always the ones that fight tooth and claw for the win."

She gaped at him for a moment before recovering. "Capture the what?" 

"Flag," he said. "Don't tell me you've never played."

"Um… I think maybe once in PE class in middle school?" 

"Oh, wow. Well, whatever you do, don't do what Derek does." 

"What does Derek do?"

Stewart shrugged. "Sucks." He tipped back his beer bottle and gulped, but it was empty. He lowered it with a disappointed frown. 

"Thanks, Stu," she said, testing the nickname out like it was some sort of biohazard she knew she shouldn't be touching. He didn't seem to notice or care. "You're a fountain of helpfulness."

He grinned. "I try. We usually play after dark with glow sticks. Makes it funner. The kids love it, but I think it's really just an excuse for us adults to act like degenerate five-year-olds."

The first strains of Smooth Criminal flared. Loud enough to melt her chest. Meredith looked up and cringed as Sarah leapt back from the boom box, a startled pile of flailing limbs. "Holy crap, Chris, what did you do to the speakers!" she shouted as she recovered, dove back in, and started twisting knobs that could have been the volume. Finally, the sound died down to a loud, but reasonable level. "Sorry everyone!" she said as Chris inspected the speaker setup.

"Well, I'm off for more beer," Stewart said as if the noisy debacle on the deck hadn't even warranted notice. He eyed his empty bottle, and then he wandered off.

"Meredith!" Sarah called. "What type of music do you like?" 

"Not The Clash," Meredith replied.

Sarah laughed. "Does Derek still listen to that crap?" 

"Yes," Meredith said with a groan.

"Well, luckily," Sarah said as she hopped down from the deck, "I made the mix CDs."

Meredith saw a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye. She turned just in time to see shiny, cushy thing hurdling through the air at her. Reaching up, she caught it in a snap and brought it down. It was a plastic bag filled with napkins.

"Excellent reflexes!" Stewart whistled, delighted. "We'll conquer tonight, Meredith. I have first pick." He stood behind the grill. The direction that the napkins had been lobbed from…

She stood staring at him, gaping as he did an about face and swaggered off. Sarah laughed. "Stu, don't scare her," she called after Stu as he departed. He raised his brand new beer and tipped it back at her in acknowledgement, but didn't turn around. Sarah just laughed again. "Mere, honey, why don't you help Natalie with the table?"

Sarah pointed at the table where Natalie stood, hovering, putting out plates and arranging things, which was actually quite the task when there were settings for twenty-five people. For a minute, she stood there, twitching a little in overload. She blinked, stealing herself, and then went over to the table.

"Hello," she said.

Natalie looked up and smiled. "I see Stu shirked the napkin duty," she said.

Meredith glanced down at her bundle. "Apparently."

Natalie bent over and set out a table candle and a plate. She was probably the closest looking to Derek of the Shepherd cadre. But, while she was attractive, she wasn't drop dead gorgeous like Sarah, or plucky cute like Kathy, or suavely elegant like Nancy. Very… down to earth, was the thought that sprung up in Meredith's mind.

"I feel a little out of place too, sometimes," Natalie said.

"Pardon?" Meredith said.

Natalie just gave her a knowing smile. "I live in Florida. I'm not a doctor. I see them maybe two or three times a year. Sometimes, I feel a little like I'm not quite in the club anymore."

Meredith smiled, but it was a polite, grating kind of smile that she wasn't really sure she meant. "I have a bad history with families," she said.

Natalie shrugged. "Don't let it keep you out." 

"Out?"

A smile spread across Natalie's lips in a grin so reminiscent of Derek's slanty, arrogant, I'm-on-top-of-the-world-and-I-know-it face, Meredith struggled to withhold a gasp. It was weird, being surrounded by people who were obviously so close to Derek and yet… So… Not. "Of the club," Natalie clarified. "And you can call me Nat, by the way."

Meredith nodded, a little unsure how to proceed, but Natalie worked farther down to the next place setting and put out another plate. "Derek really likes you," Natalie said as she placed the next candle. "It's good that you make him happy." Meredith followed with the napkins.

Meredith sighed. "Sometimes I wonder." What with the dying and all.

Natalie stared at her for a moment and gave her a nonchalant shrug that said very little of anything. "Don't," she said.

The conversation sort of died awkwardly at that point. Meredith swallowed as she worked her way around the table in a lap, placing napkins on the plates as she passed. She walked by Natalie at some point. Everything remained cordial. When Meredith was done with the napkins, she went off to find other things to do and got lost in the swirl of preparation. She stacked food. She helped carry this box, helped drag that chair, picked up trash, darted this way and that in the fray.

It was overwhelming. Overwhelming to suddenly be a matter-of-fact part of something so big and… so… warm. Meredith, help with this. Meredith, can you do that? Mere, come over here. It was all a swirl in her head. After a while, she found herself needing to sit, almost feeling dizzy with it all. She meandered to the picnic table, through the big, warm swath of family darting this way and that in a blur. She sat, put her head in her hands, and just stared. Stared. Everyone seemed so… happy.

It seemed almost wrong for her to be a part of it.

But it felt so…

So…

When a warm hand slipped over her shoulder, she startled out of her chair with a gasp. She turned to find Derek standing there, looking sexy in his sexy rock star sunglasses. He had a cute grin on his face.

"Care to dance?" Derek asked as he tugged her closer and started to sway to the slow rhythm of In The Air Tonight. She sighed against him, reveling in the rolling, hypnotic feel of the back and forth, back and forth. Suddenly, things weren't so overwhelming anymore.

"I thought you didn't dance in public?" she said. Then again, he had danced at prom. With Addison. Swaying back and forth much like this. All while he had stared at her, unblinking, dark, angry, longing, and all sorts of other things.

"A, this isn't public," he said. "B, slow dancing doesn't count, and, C, I just spent thirty minutes doing an en masse sex talk for my entire family under age ten." 

She snorted at his woeful expression. "What does C have to do with dancing?" she asked, trying not to break into peals of laughter over the mental image of Dr. Derek Shepherd giving a lecture on sex ed. She would be surprised, immensely surprised, if he hadn't had extreme difficulties keeping it G-rated. She could imagine him blushing profusely as he tried to come up with metaphors about seeds and whatever else. 

He frowned as her lip started to quiver with suppressed laughter. "It doesn't," he said. "I'm just showing you my hidden pain. I can't believe Kathy made me do that."

She smiled. "It's your own fault, you know."

He paused and pulled back to look her in the eye. It felt a little odd that, with the sunglasses, she couldn't meet his eyes back. "How is this **my** fault?" he asked, incredulous. "It takes two, you know." 

"You started that little game…" she said. 

"Hey, now," he protested. "I distinctly remember you being the one to say we needed to be quiet." 

Meredith laughed. "And I distinctly remember **you** being the one to make a game of trying to make me yelp…" 

"It wasn't a game until you followed with your return…" He paused as a funny look crossed his face. He paused, paused, paused, like he was trying desperately to find some other word, but he finally settled on, "Stroke…" though it sounded half-hearted, like he couldn't believe he'd said it. 

"Derek…" 

"Sorry," he said as a quirky grin returned. "That was bad." 

"That was awful."

"I blame the concussion." 

"I blame your dirty, dirty mind," she said, smiling.

They swayed, swayed, swayed. The song slipped to an end and into Waiting For A Girl Like You by Foreigner. They shifted to match the new beat. Meredith was glad it wasn't a fast song. Because standing there, soaking up Derek's warmth, doing the prom thing, well, it was very nice. They'd never done anything like this before. Hell, they rarely had the time.

"So, speaking of competitions…" he said, breaking the comfortable silence.

She glanced up at him, looking for a hint, any hint, but with the sunglasses, she just didn't find any. Derek was all about eye expression. Aside from smiling and scowling, he didn't do as much with the rest of his face. She hadn't realized that before that day, and it was frustrating to suddenly feel so handicapped. She reached up and brushed his cheeks with her palms, wishing idly that she could sweep her fingers up and push the glasses back, no matter how sexy they looked on him, but she restrained herself. If he was wearing them, he needed them. 

"Yeah?" she prodded when he didn't say anything.

His lip curled. "Finn…" 

"Oh," Meredith replied with a frown. "You remembered that." 

"Yeah," he said.

She looked down. "It wasn't one of my finer moments of decision making."

He sighed. "Look, Mere," he began, his voice breaking into silence as he searched for words. She watched him, let him have his time, enjoyed the feel of his skin against her palms as she slipped up under his shirt and rested her hands against his lower back. "I get that I gave you a busload of reasons to doubt my sincerity," he said after careful contemplation. "I just want… Well… Have we… Talked about…" 

"What?"

He switched tactics abruptly after an agitated sigh. "You get that you're not a fling to me, right? You never were. I know they're just words, Mere, but…"

She stared at him, hung frozen in the moment as his words sank in. Tension rolled through her. She shivered with it. She'd been doing the family thing all week, Derek had nearly died, Derek didn't remember everything, Derek, Derek, Derek. She snorted, and it degenerated into outright laughter shortly after. She felt horrible about it, horrible when she saw his lip twitch in some unknown reaction that she couldn't read because she couldn't fucking see his eyes. She leaned against his chest and laughed again, though she couldn't really tell if it was a laugh or a sob.

His arms tightened around her. "What's funny?" he asked, his voice hitching, confused, a little pained...

"Nothing," she moaned at him, trying to pull herself together. "It's just… I've spent this whole week waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to stop believing in **me**, and here we are having a discussion about **my** trust issues."

He swallowed. "Why wouldn't I trust you?" he asked. 

"Because I gave up, Derek. I gave up, and I don't think you ever believed me when I said it would never happen again. I also think, on top of all that, that you blamed yourself for it. And when I told you about it today, I saw it, Derek. I saw it starting to happen on your face. You used to look at me like you do now. And then the ferry thing happened, and it… went away."

He sighed. "I don't know what to say to that, Meredith. I don't know… I just don't remember."

Her heart crumpled at his lost tone.

He leaned into her, brought his lips down next to her ear. "I'd tell you if I knew," he said, frustrated, sad. He breathed once, twice.

She clutched him, tighter, tighter, rubbed his back. His earlier, relaxed demeanor was gone, replaced by a tense, wilting frame that made her chest ache. "For what it's worth, Derek, I do." 

"What?" he whispered, the word hitting her ear like a feather touch.

"Trust you," she said. And it was true. She'd always felt like she would wake up one day and he wouldn't be there, always felt like she was with him on borrowed time, especially lately, after the look in his eyes had changed. Then he'd forgotten all about her in the world's most ironic reset and decided he loved her anyway over nothing more than a box of cereal and conversation. She was willing to work with anything at this point now that he'd given her such a compelling reason.

"Thank you," he said.

"I'm sorry I messed things up," she replied, pulling him as close as she could manage. "I'm so sorry." 

"Stop saying that," he replied. And then he kissed her. The world peeled away from her like the petals of a wilting flower as he dipped her backward. His fingers tightened at the small of her back. She heard a vague chorus of childish "eeeews" and giggles, but it didn't matter, didn't matter in the slightest, because it all faded into the roar of her rushing blood and his deep breathing against her. His lips ran against her like a slow burning fire.

Meredith blinked, caught a glimpse of a kaleidoscope of colors all around her, spinning, spinning. Beyond it all, somehow, she caught a flicker of movement. Kathy was making frantic shooing motions with her hands. Frantic, frantic, what? Meredith blinked again, unable to form thoughts. Derek. Derek tasted really good. Derek… What? Kathy was hopping up and down at this point, mouthing words at her, rapid bits of syllables, though it seemed strangely as though she were the victim of a mute button. No audible words were happening. Derek… Mmm. Blink, blink. Back to Kathy.

"Meredith, back up!" Kathy finally yelled.

Something in Kathy's tone made Meredith react, and she tilted back on her feet, tearing from Derek's embrace. He grunted, stumbled to catch his footing, and had about a nanosecond to stare at her, confused, breathless, and glassy-eyed before a cooler's worth of ice cubes and melting bits poured down on top of him. Chris and Stewart ran off laughing, red plastic cooler thumping to the ground beside Derek in their wake.

"Too hot, too hot!" Stewart shouted as kids everywhere started laughing and shrieking and giggling. "We'd like some peace tonight!" he called, but he was already past the fence that separated the back yard from the front.

John chuckled as Derek stood there dripping, shivering, shocked.

"Oh, you are going to pay," Derek growled as a dangerous smile overtook his face. He peeled off his sunglasses, tossed them onto the nearby table, and, suddenly, he was off at a run, chasing down John.

"I didn't do anything!" John yelled.

"Bystanders are guilty, too!" Derek called after him.

Stewart, having made a lap of the house, came up behind Meredith as she watched, stunned. Derek and John disappeared in the direction Stewart had originally gone. "See?" Stewart said, a relaxed, playful grin slathered across his face. "This is why he sucks at capture the flag. He's all endurance and no sprint. He'll never catch John."

Meredith choked, trying not to laugh as she thought about it. "Endurance," she said as a guttural shout curled around the side of the house from what she could only presume was the front lawn, followed by another. It sounded like a frustrated Derek. "Yeah. I can see that. Yeah."

Stewart grinned. "Why, you minx, you. I think you'll fit in just fine--"

He grunted as Derek tackled him from behind. "That was cold!" Derek roared as they plowed to the ground.

"That was the idea," Stewart said with a chortle from somewhere in the fray. "Why do I always get picked on?" 

"Because Chris could bench press my trailer!"

Meredith backed off with a laugh, amazed at the sudden transformation of Derek, Casanova, to Derek, wounded, playful adolescent. She sat down at the picnic table, dumbfounded. Kathy sat down beside her.

"They always have to have at least one fight. I swear. The collective IQ level drops in groups of tens whenever males of the species congregate…" Kathy said, her voice trailing away.

Stewart escaped, tripping, nearly sprawling as Derek made a leaping grab for his ankle, but he righted himself with a laugh and sprinted off. Derek hopped onto his feet and chased after him with a growl.

Kathy frowned. "Are they okay like that? I mean, with Derek being hurt."

Meredith blinked as she registered Kathy's words, and the worry slipped down behind her heart. "Um, actually, they really shouldn't do that. If he gets a concussion again so soon after the last one, he could die," she said, standing up, suddenly frantic. "And he's a brain surgeon. Why is he being a moron?"

The problem was fixed when Derek and Stewart walked back into the yard, laughing, joking, slapping each other like they'd just been having a friendly discussion. What. The. Hell. Meredith blinked. "Sometimes…" she said. "I just don't get it."

Kathy snorted. "I make my living 'getting it', and I still don't get it. Trust me, it's not just you."

Meredith caught movement out of the corner of her eye and tore her eyes away from Derek. Nancy walked over and sat down at the table, staring, staring off into space. Her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with red. She sniffled. Her fingers curled. She clutched a fist at her chest like she was protecting a mortal wound from further damage. She looked, for all intents and purposes, like a ghost.

"Nance, are you doing all right?" Kathy asked as she stood up and resettled next to Nancy. She took Nancy into a hug, but Nancy sort of just… let it happen. Passive. Staring.

When Mary ran up, Meredith frowned. "Mommy, where did Daddy go?" Mary asked.

Nancy blinked.

Meredith leaned in before Nancy had a chance to answer. She could remember. She could remember her mom trying to explain to her why Thatcher wasn't around anymore. Mary didn't need to make that memory at a family picnic. Not when she should be having fun.

"Mary, why don't you explain how to play capture the flag to me?" Meredith said.

Mary turned to Meredith, leaving Nancy forgotten. "Oh, that's easy," Mary said, flashing a toothy, cute grin.

Meredith took up the little girl's hand and drew Mary away. As Mary began to babble, babble, babble away about the finer points of play, Meredith glanced back over her shoulder at Nancy, who stared after her. It was the first time she'd seen Nancy look at her without a writhing pile of hate behind her eyes. Instead she looked… Almost… Almost grateful. Perhaps there was hope there after all, Meredith decided.

She let Mary keep talking long after the rules for capture the flag had been expounded. 


	22. Chapter 20

The smell of soil permeated the air. A branch hung low and scraped along his back as he scuttled forward on his elbows and knees, half pushing, half dragging his lower body along through the dark tunnel of foliage. Sweat meandered down his temples, and his breaths came in short, over-exerted gasps.

He glanced ahead at the faint red glow. The leaves ahead of him rustled underneath a light staccato of muttered curses and harsh breaths.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Derek said to the dark, grunting blur moving ahead of him. He struggled not to snarl as another stick poked him in the side.

"There's no other way," John said, his voice deep and gruff and quiet.

"I didn't come to this reunion to inspect the underside of my mother's border shrubbery, John," Derek said.

John kicked back with his foot lightly, catching Derek's hand. "Shhh!" John hissed.

The both of them stilled as a soft thump, thump, thump alerted them to someone's rapid passing over the turf nearby. A red dot loped along, low to the ground, probably one of the kids. A chorus of shouts followed. Through the gaps in the leaves, Derek saw a haze of blurry blue-glowing dots running around. "Flag carrier went to the right!" Chris yelled. More thumps, heavier, louder, darted by.

When the quiet returned, Derek sighed, trying to ignore the crawling sensation down the small of his back. He hoped it was just perspiration. He tried not to twitch in annoyance, but failed, only to ram into a low-hanging branch. A shock of pain lanced through him. He closed his eyes for a moment.

"We need to get Sarah and Kathy out of jail," John muttered as the red dot that had passed by moments earlier was beset with blues in the distance. "We're getting creamed."

"We seem to be okay," Derek said as they resumed their painfully slow, forward crawl. "We almost capped just then…"

"Mary is our flag guard, Derek," John said, grunting as he pushed through the next bush. "She's five." 

"Only because you pulled me off it!" 

"Yeah. To rescue people. Rescue. What's with you, man? You usually put the Underground Railroad to shame with your OCD jail raids."

"Yeah, well…" A stick jabbed him as he scooted forward. "Ow!" Derek snarled.

His muscles protested, his head was starting to throb, and the thick cotton collecting just behind his eyes, urging him to sleep, was thickening. Going commando in a game of capture the flag four days after a debilitating concussion had probably not been the best of ideas. He'd tried to stick to defense, tried to stick to the less strenuous stuff…

John whuffed with quiet laughter. "Christ. Sir Galahad is sure in a funk… Stewart is never going to let us live this down if he skunks us, you know."

"Just give him a beer," Derek snapped. "That'll shut him up." He dug his fingers into the soil and pulled himself forward.

"Whatever," John said. "Look. We need to distract Meredith so we can get the captives out. We'd get mobbed on foot right now. So we crawl."

"How is it that I'm supposed to distract Mere, anyway?"

"Just run past. She'll follow." 

"I'm covered in dirt, sweat, and leaves. I think she might be able to resist me just this once, John. She might laugh hysterically, though," Derek replied, sighing. He paused his forward crawl to swallow, to give his muscles a bit of a rest. The cease in activity only made him realize how hard he was breathing, made him more uncomfortable as he tried to tamp down its runaway pace.

"I didn't mean seduce her, Derek, lord. You just need to draw her away. I'm sure she'd like to clobber you for something. Have you made her mad lately? Work it, man. Just work it." 

Right. Fight with Meredith to save a game? That was the last thing they needed right then. He felt like he was on such precarious ground with her. Every chance she had, she reminded him that she was sorry, that she regretted what had happened. It clotted his brain with a twisting, writhing sort of worry.

"I'm still not sure how I feel about throwing myself on the sword for this," he muttered.

A harsh thump and a curse answered him. Leaves rustled. John breathed once, twice, recovering, and said, "Think of the team, man. We'll come back for you." 

Derek usually loved playing this game with his family. But since Meredith had jarred him awake, he just hadn't felt quite right. The cottony, mind-clogging effects of the sedative were really starting to bother him. He'd thought he would be all right with it, but as the day had dragged on, it'd gotten progressively worse. Or perhaps, a little voice tried to interject, you're really just that tired anyway?

He sighed. "You're a horrible liar."

John ignored the dig. "Can you try and keep Meredith distracted while you wait for us?" 

Derek swept a branch away, only to have it smack back into his face, unforgiving. He gritted his teeth as he pushed through it and it clawed through his hair. This was a bad, bad plan. And he'd been stupid to let himself get sucked into it. These bushes were not meant as concealment, they were meant as a second fence. They were meant to be hard to crawl through…

And this sucked.

"Sure," Derek said, "Let me practice. Mere, recite the steps of a hemispherectomy from memory."

"Derek…" 

"Mere, you look hot. Let's neck."

"Derek…" 

"Mere, check out my glow stick." 

"Derek!"

Derek growled in frustration as a twig caught on his jeans and wouldn't release him. He swept back with a shaking hand, clawing at it. It let go, but not before it'd stabbed him in multiple other places.

"I can't believe you've turned family capture the flag into psychological warfare…" Derek said as he slithered forward another few but epic feet. 

"I blame Kathy," John replied. "And you really have your panties in a twist tonight, don't you?" 

"That's what happens when I'm getting sticks shoved up my—"

"Think of the glory, Derek!" John said, interrupting him. "The unsung hero finally gets a broadcasted rescue. The self-sacrifice… It's poetic." 

"I felt perfectly glorious on defense…" Derek grumbled.

He gasped with relief when the low-hanging canopy finally gave way to an open area. A thick tree trunk hid them from view. The glow sticks that hung around their necks glowed softly red in the darkness, but they were obscured enough that the light probably wouldn't be visible to anyone who wasn't patrolling the fence with a magnifying glass and maybe a drug-sniffing dog. He wondered if they even trained drug-sniffing dogs to find Schedule IV narcotics like alprazolam anyway.

He shifted up onto his knees and leaned against the tree, resting his forehead, closing his eyes. A dull, sinking sensation hit him, really driving home just how exhausted he was. He wanted to sleep. After this round, he was done. Xanax 1, Derek 0. Bark jabbed him, so he gave up resting and rolled back onto his haunches, waiting for John to lead him to his metaphorical death. He wasn't even sure he'd run from Meredith at this point. He might just let her tag him. At least sitting in jail would be… sitting. Not crawling, or running, or leaping.

But John didn't move. "Seriously, man. What's up?"

For a moment, Derek considered keeping silent, wallowing alone. This was all just so… frustrating. He was tired. He ached. He wanted to stop taking the goddamned Xanax, but he was getting so worked up even while he was on it, he dreaded what things would be like if he were off it. And Meredith…

He didn't think Meredith even realized what her constant apologizing was doing to him, bit by aching bit. Her accident was looming, ready to fill the blank… And he didn't think he could take the waiting much more. He had to know. Had to know how bad things had been, so he could start feeling like he was recovering, rather than just flailing around without a paddle, waiting for the next blow to come.

"I tried to ask her about marriage," Derek said. "Earlier."

The ground hissed as John shifted, scraping a foot across it. "What!" he said. "Are you two getting engaged?"

Derek sighed. "I don't know. I don't even know if we've discussed it before. I don't… I'm still missing stuff. And she changed the subject before I could even tell her what it was."

In the dim haze of red glow, Derek saw John frown, for the first time, actually seeming to realize that Derek was not really just… 'in a funk', as he'd put it. "Sorry," John said, his voice dripping with such sincere contriteness, Derek almost felt bad for dumping on him the whole crawl there. "It's easy to forget you're…" 

"Brain damaged?" Derek snapped. He sighed, blinking, trying to will the crankiness away, but it wasn't working. 

"Not quite the words I was looking for…" John replied. 

Derek raked his hands through his hair. "It's getting frustrating. I'm frustrated. I'm on drugs that I hate. I'm tired." 

"Well, do you want to?" 

"Do I want what?" 

"To ask her?" 

Derek opened his mouth. Yes. The reply hung on the tip of his tongue, bouncing like a diver at the end of a diving board, ready to commit to air. But then everything jarred to a halt, and all that came out of his mouth was a stuttered syllable of vocalization that didn't resemble any sort of word. He loved her so much it hurt.

But there was the blank.

From everything she'd said, said blank had shaken said love all the way to the moorings.

And he just didn't know what to think anymore. 

_Do you want to get married? And you haven't told me, and I haven't asked, and now we have a problem?_

He closed his eyes and gasped, but the words drifted away from him like the curl of a fog moving away in the wind. He forgot, forgot, forgot, and within moments, all he knew was that, for a second, he'd remembered something.

He clenched his teeth together and slammed the side of his hand into the bark. It hurt. It fucking hurt. He cursed as he drew his hand away and tried to shake the sting out.

"I don't think I've ever seen you this messed up over a woman before, Derek," John said when Derek remained silent. 

"Yeah, well," Derek said, letting loose an ironic, unhappy chuckle as he shrugged helplessly. "From what I hear, it only gets worse. Look, let's just get this over with, okay?"

John nodded. "They have the jail set in the gazebo. You run up while I sneak around the back. We should be good." 

Derek heaved a sigh as he climbed to his feet. "Okay. Ready?" 

"Yeah. Good luck, Galahad." 

"If you call me that again," Derek said as he stretched really quickly, "I'm going to help Meredith catch you. And I'll have her relocate the jail into this fucking shrubbery."

John just grinned and saluted.

Derek took off at leisurely jog toward Meredith's telltale glowing blue dot. "Fear not, team red! I'll save you!" he bellowed, trying to make a show of it. He saw Sarah and Kathy and four of the kids sitting in the gazebo behind Meredith, who paced back and forth. Kathy collapsed her head in her hands and shook her head.

"Derek," Meredith said as he loped up. She came to a halt mid-pace, crossed her arms, and stood there looking indescribably cat-caught-the-canary-like. The way she stood there, head cocked to the side, simple ponytail draped behind her, dark t-shirt, jeans… she looked adorable. Yet… Deadly.

"So," he said as he came to a stop about fifteen feet away, well out of swiping distance, "Can you recite the steps of a hemispherectomy from memory?"

She frowned, the canary look disappearing in the midst of confusion. "Um…"

"You're hot. Want to neck?"

"Derek…" 

"Would you like to see my glow stick?" He grabbed his red glow rod and ran his fingers up in down it in a vaguely lewd motion.

She snorted with laughter. "What are you doing? Are you trying to distract me or something?" 

Derek grinned. "Yes. Is it working?" 

"Not really." 

"I didn't think it would."

He glanced around. Meredith watched him, but she didn't take the bait, didn't move away from the jail. The area was strangely devoid of defenders, which meant blue was heavy on the offense right then, or he was standing in the middle of a trap. He tried to find any telltale blue glows in the darkness. It was illegal to conceal them with clothing. Shrubbery was another matter. But the area around the gazebo was fairly open…

Red flashed far, far behind Meredith's back and the gazebo. John was moving in.

"So, where did you guys hide your flag?" Derek said.

Meredith rolled her eyes. "You look like you fought with a wood chipper and lost, Derek. Whatever you're trying to do isn't going to work."

He shrugged. "Just making conversation."

He started to hedge toward the woodpile at the back of the yard. If they had their flag somewhere in this area, the woodpile would be a good bet. "Hey," Meredith said. "Stop."

"Make me," he replied, grinning. "What, is your flag in the woodpile?"

"No," she said. Too quickly.

"Right," he said. And he took off at a sprint.

Blue descended on him in a swarm. Where had everyone come from? He heard Meredith shouting as he dodged and darted and ran around bushes, trees, over piles, through clots of people. "Get him!" Stewart yelled.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw seven red, glowing dots running to freedom. He veered toward the woodpile, hoping to at least make this stupid stunt a bit more worthwhile. He caught a glimpse of a yellow glow stick on top of the pile. He ran for it, darted past, swept it up into his hands, and started trying to make the return trip, knowing all the while as he saw the blue swoop in on him like a swarm of sparrows dive bombing a hawk that he didn't have a chance.

He made it all of ten feet before a tiny body plowed into him and sent him careening to the ground. The flag fell from his hand and skittered away, and he landed with a thud that sent the air whooshing from him. He groaned as the impact continued, sending jarring pain through all his joints. And then he was on the ground, flat, breathing, and stunned.

"Crap," Meredith said. "I got carried away. I didn't mean to knock you over… Are you okay?"

He swallowed, trying to gather up what was left of his wits. Noticing his lack of movement, the tiredness from before plunged back into him with a vengeance. He lay on his back, staring up at the canopy of dark, blurry trees and black, blurry sky, breathing, trying to form a thought. Meredith. Meredith had… Meredith had tackled him like she was blitzing a quarterback. That simply wasn't fair…

She shook his shoulders harshly enough that it made his head spin. "Say something!" she said, her voice pinched with an almost panicked worry.

"I'm fine," he replied. He grinned as he reached up and gripped her thighs. "You're on top of me."

Meredith blinked, staring at him for a moment before the worry receded and a smile curled at her lips. She wriggled, which, on top of the tiredness, the aches, and everything else, made him groan with arousal. "I think I got you," she said as she twisted a piece of his shirt in her fingers.

"That's hardly news," he replied with a wink.

"You're kind of a mess, you know," she said as she pulled a leaf from his hair. "You didn't really get in a fight with a wood chipper, did you?"

"No comment. Say, does your jail offer shower massage service?" he asked.

"All right," Stewart said, clapping his hands. "No fraternizing with the enemy, Meredith. To jail with him!"

Meredith chuckled and started to climb off of him. The soft blue of the glow stick that hung around her neck swung forward as she slid back. The light glanced off her skin, giving her a pale, haunting visage as she shifted, and in that instant, he froze. The air around his skin seemed to chill momentarily, but it melted into a quick, desperate heat that had nothing to do with lust. He sucked in a breath. His heart slammed against his chest in an uneven stuttering rhythm, and he had the strangest sensation of his body cavity hollowing out, plunging down, down, down. The need to run was all he knew.

"Derek?" Meredith said, pausing, her hands clenched around his arms.

He jerked as a choking, gasping breath tore through him. His back skidded into the grass and stony soil when he kicked out with his legs and shoved backward from her. Meredith released him and rolled to the side immediately.

"Derek, Derek, what's wrong?" Meredith was saying as he rolled onto his stomach, but, though he heard her, the fact that the sounds were words and had meaning just didn't sink in.

He dug his toes into the turf, pushing his body along, scraping, dragging, gaining enough momentum to wobble up onto his feet. He flailed blindly, lurching to a haphazard standing position. The yard swayed drunkenly, or maybe it was him. He had to get out, get out, get out. He felt like his heart was going to choke him. He stumbled left, stumbled right, everything blurred, and nothing made sense. Couldn't breathe…

"He's escaping! I'll get him!" Stewart shouted.

"Stop!" Meredith yelled. "Don't—"

A body slammed into him and sent Derek sprawling into the dirt again. Derek's breath knocked away from him as Stewart righted himself from the tackle and moved to straddle Derek, to pull his arms back behind him in the beginnings of a hogtie. "Nice try," Stewart said with a laugh. "You're not supposed to seduce the jail guard into letting you go!"

Derek flailed at the sudden restriction to his movement. A panicked, pitching noise popped out of his mouth. He gasped, gasped, gasped, only to have everything fuzz up as his breath came back to him. His eyes flared. The red of his glow stick swathed the ground with a haunting haze of light, but it was a peripheral sort of thing. He started to struggle without meaning to, started to squirm. He flailed again in a jerking, spasmodic motion. His shoulders roared in protest, unable to give him anything to work with while Stewart continued holding him down. His heart crashed into his breastbone, over and over. His body started to shiver. He had to get out, get out, get out…

And as quickly as the roar had plowed into him, it receded, leaving him spent, dripping with even more sweat than before, and feeling like a truck had caught an axle on his body and dragged him to Seattle and back.

"Stewart, get off him," Meredith was saying as he came back to himself. "He's not playing."

Derek went limp, breathed in the scent of the turf. "Let me up," he said, his voice hoarse and wispy.

Stewart backed off. Derek blinked against the ground, sighing in relief as his arms were released and the screaming pain in his shoulders ceased. "Sorry, man," Stewart said with a sincere frown. "I thought…" He shook his head and leaned down with a hand outstretched, which Derek used to lurch back to his feet.

Meredith stood behind Stewart, biting her lip as Derek took a moment to breathe, collect himself, regain his sense of solidity. The game of capture the flag continued around them. Nobody seemed to have noticed this little episode. It had only taken moments.

"Are you okay?" Meredith asked.

He glanced at her. Their two blue glow sticks overwhelmed his red one and combined to give everyone an awful, bloodless, periwinkle cast. He felt the beginnings of dread yanking the ground out from beneath him. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe. It wasn't as bad now that he was prepared for it. Everything ached as tension waxed only to wane again. Only to wax again when he dared to open his eyes.

"I think I overdid it," he said flatly. His voice sounded like it had been torn apart over a cheese grater or something, like he'd been screaming, except he knew he hadn't been.

"Sure, man," Stewart said with a nod. "I'll let everyone know you two are done. You're okay, right?" 

"Fine," Derek said tightly. Stewart clapped him on the back.

Derek turned to Meredith as Stewart went to rejoin the fray. "You don't have to stop on my account," he said, trying to ignore the slip of fear that writhed down his spine like a snake every time he looked at her. He had no idea where it was coming from. He swallowed, trying to figure it out. He didn't need to take another pill until ten, and it was only eight. He should be fine… Should be…

She didn't budge. "What's wrong?" she asked, ignoring him.

He gasped against the shivery, queasy feeling that was slowly returning from earlier that day. "I feel like I'm remembering something, but I'm not," he said, his voice shaky as he turned toward the house. "I'm not remembering anything. I was fine. Just tired."

Meredith frowned. She touched his back with the flat of her palm and rubbed it.

They went into the kitchen and sat down side by side at the breakfast table. He collapsed his face into his hands, rested his elbows against the placemat in front of him, and thought, thought, thought. What was stuck? What wasn't breaking through?

She leaned against him, and he caught a glimpse of the glow stick dangling from her neck against his arm. It glowed against his skin as it wobbled in the peripheral of his field of view. He turned to it. Stared. Stared at the bluish tone of his flesh as the glow stick hovered next to it. Followed the glow back to her face. An ice-cold dagger slipped down his throat.

_Use your words…_

The barest hint of something flickered past his mind's eye. Strands of her hair. In the water. Floating in a crush of cold. And then it was gone.

He clamped his hand over his mouth at the sudden upswing of bile from his stomach, squeezed his eyes shut, and leaned down over his knees. He wasn't going to throw up. He wasn't going to… wasn't. No. Not on his mother's scribble-stained breakfast table. Not anywhere. He choked and sputtered, and the bile tore back down his throat, dripped, burning, into his nose before sliding back. His throat ached.

A curdled sob wound its way out of him, and suddenly he was tilting over as Meredith pulled his head down against her shoulder. She ran her fingers through his hair, whispered at him, did all the right things, except, for once, it simply didn't help. He looked blurrily at her, across the curve of her chest. She still had the blue glow rod dangling from her neck. He put his hand over it, trying to blot it out, to shove the awful blue away. She gripped his hand, worried her fingers at his joints, but the motion let the glow escape. She didn't understand… He rolled his face into her shoulder, pawed at the stupid little glow thing weakly.

"Take it off," he whispered into the cotton of her shirt, but it was barely audible to begin with and destroyed down to a vibrating mumble by the fabric. The air swept into him as he inhaled, cracking over his vocal cords in a tortured, breaking sound. He screwed his eyes shut, but behind his eyelids hung a curtain of cloudy gray sky and the calm stillness of misty-colored gray water. The oily smell of it made his throat clog, made him want to choke.

_Where is Meredith?_

He started to shake. She ran a hand up and down his side while he sat there in the grips of it. It. He wasn't sure what it was. Some sort of slipping, drenching, underneath-it-all fear that he couldn't pinpoint. All he could see was the water and nothing else. Nothing else came back. Nothing. He waited, trying to brace himself, but as the moments wandered past and the tension kept mounting, nothing happened, nothing at all. The frustration burbled out of him in distressed, shaky breaths.

He swallowed thickly, wishing the churning would stop. He stared at her, breath hitching. "Take…. Take it off," he begged, finally able to make it coherent enough for her to understand the words. He pulled at the little glow stick. She frowned at him, but she did as he asked, slipping the lanyard over her neck. The stick thunked on the table when she released it. He shoved it away. It flew off the table, hit the wall with a smack, careened to the ground, and rolled with a hollow, scraping sound until it hit the first dip of grout between the tile it had landed on and the next tile in the progression of momentum.

"I hate this," he snarled. The fluttery, shivery feeling wasn't going away. The nausea wasn't going away. Tension locked his frame no matter what he tried to make it all relax. He pushed back against his chair. It squealed back along the floor tiles and would have tipped, but Meredith reached out and corrected it. "I can't. It's not coming back."

She stared at him, her eyes tearing up. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Stop saying that!" he shouted, the force of it making him shake. He felt heat flare across his cheeks. "I don't remember, okay? I don't remember the fucking ferry. I don't even know what the hell you're apologizing for yet. Just stop. Stop it. Stop." You're just scaring me more. Stop. The words that followed in his head didn't make it into his litany.

He brought his hands up to his face and breathed into them. He felt his eyes tearing up, but he didn't feel sad. Just… Frustrated. Tired. Terrified. Impatient. Irritated. Any of the above would have been accurate. All of the above would have been accurate. But there was more, more he couldn't even put into words, and it was yanking at him, clawing at him, and it wouldn't let him go. He felt like he was being slowly stretched apart on a rack.

"I don't know what else to say, Derek," Meredith replied, wringing her hands together in a repeated, guilty motion. Out, out, damned spot… She swallowed, blinked. "You're hurting. And I can't… It's my fault." He watched her as her eyes started to water. It tore at his heart, making him feel even worse. "What made you so afraid?"

Cold, cold, cold. The water parted as he dove, only to yank him under with the shock of it. His muscles started to lock up. He couldn't breathe…

The flash was gone before he really digested any of it. And again, he was left with the feeling that he'd remembered something, only to forget it, only to let it slip back into the blank that wouldn't recede, wouldn't release him from its grip.

He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down, but all he saw again was the fucking water, hazy and gray and still, and it made him want to break something. If only it would just… finish. He sighed, sighed, sighed, but somewhere along the line, it became sobbing, and he didn't know what to do with it. He paced as the tension thrummed through him, paced and cried and didn't understand what was going on, because he wasn't sad. He just wanted it to be done.

"Derek, what made you afraid?" she asked.

He pulled his hands through his hair, ignoring the throb against his scalp as he yanked just a bit too hard. "I don't. I don't know. I don't remember. I need to remember, and I don't remember."

"Are you remembering the ferry stuff?" she asked.

"I'm not remembering anything!" he yelled. "It comes for a second, and then it's gone, and I don't know what it was. It won't finish."

He panted. Paced. Panted. Paced. And cried. The crying was what fueled the deep burning furnace churning in his gut. Everything was hot. Hot. And he wanted it to stop.

Meredith tried to get him to stop moving at one point, but he shook out of her arms and kept going, kept going, kept going. "Derek, you need to stop and take a breath. Or something. You're just hurting yourself like this," she said. She stood there, the focal point of his circular laps around the kitchen

He halted at her words. The furnace churned and churned and churned, and suddenly wanted to burst out of him. He had his mouth open, had his mouth open to shout at her in a horrific litany of flaming, nasty words, but he caught himself on the first syllable, warping it into a hitching, tortured, twisting sort of sound that didn't make any sense. He shook, shook with the force of drawing it all back in. After a one breaths, two breaths, three, he settled for a low, quiet, almost-growl. She didn't deserve to get yelled at for this.

"I'm dirty. I need to take a shower," he said, biting around the sudden thickness in his throat.

She moved to follow him.

"Please, don't, Mere," he begged. "I'm trying so hard not to yell. I just need… It isn't you. I just… I can't."

He stalked off, and, this time, she didn't follow. He tried not to think about how crushed she looked. 


	23. Chapter 21

Meredith was in the bedroom when he finished with his shower. She turned as she heard the door open. He walked in, a white, fluffy towel wrapped around his waist. His eyes were red-rimmed. His hair was slicked back against his scalp. Various scratches grazed his arms, his neck, and his sides, though, from what she could see of his legs, at least they had escaped most abuse. He really did look like he'd gotten into a tiff with a wood chipper. She wondered what the hell he'd been doing prior to his mysterious appearance right in front of the jail.

"Are you still all shouty?" she asked, trying not to sound bitter. "I can go…" 

He blinked, looking at her as if it was the first time he'd noticed her standing there. He took a deep breath that made it sound like something was crushing him, and he slid down against the door. "No," he said. "I'm sorry…" He breathed, breathed, like he was trying to rein himself in. "It's not you, Meredith."

She reminded him of a wounded animal. Normally docile, lovable, friendly. But in so much misery he was just biting and snapping at anything that moved. It wasn't her. It really wasn't. She could tell from the sincerity in his voice, no matter how twisted with tension his tone was. He had been yelling at her because she had been stupid enough to be there.

Love made her do stupid, stupid things. Like fly in a tin can across the country to meet the family of her formerly married, slightly unstable boss. Except it didn't feel stupid. There'd been stirring. And sex. And people who seemed to like her. And Derek, who loved her.

He wrapped his arms around his knees and put his head down in the crook between them. She walked over and slid down next to him. "I'm sorry I keep doing the apologizing thing," she said as she put her hand on his back. "That was the last one, I promise." He twitched, and a guttural, unhappy chuckle rolled out of him, but he didn't look up.

She ran her palm up and down, trying to think of something to say, anything at all. He was so tense, it was making her ache just watching him. She leaned over his back, grasped his shoulders, and laid her cheek against his neck. It was like resting against a table or something, no give whatsoever.

His wet hair was cool against her forehead, which was something she would have expected. But so was the rest of his skin, particularly his arms, which were solid blocks of freezing… whatever. His skin was pale. She ran her hands under his shoulders, down his chest, which jerked with tight, panting breaths. Without even trying to pretend the movement meant something else, she felt for his pulse at his jugular. His heartbeat felt like a jackhammer under his skin. Way, way too fast for somebody who was just sitting there.

She sighed, trying to figure out what to do. She could pretend, pretend and let him just go on like this until he was ready to talk. It was what she probably would have done. Before. Before this whole family reunion thing… Before she suddenly found herself being Miss Assertive all the time. Where had that come from, anyway?

Love. Stupid. Pretty much a good summation, she thought.

He'd looked so frightened earlier. Her heart had gotten stuck up in her throat when she'd watched him flailing around, trying to run away, only to get mowed down by an overzealous Stewart. He was getting flashes, or something, only to have them disappear on him. That's what he'd said. But why would they be doing that? He hadn't seemed to be having any problems before this with memories coming back. If anything, everything had been coming back to him too quickly.

"Derek, do you think…" she began, hesitant, worried that she was about to make a huge mistake. Love. Stupid. "Well, that maybe you're having so much trouble with this because you don't want to remember it?" 

He stilled. The block of tension under her hands stiffened even more. She hadn't thought it was possible for him to tense up even worse. She bit her lip as he finally brought his head up from his knees to look at her. He rested his cheek against his kneecap and stared at her with dull, consigned misery hooding his gaze. "You think I like being like this?" he asked, his voice low and grating. He heaved a sigh that racked his frame, and then he was the tense pile of rigid muscle again.

"No," Meredith replied. "No, I don't. But it scares me that maybe you think this is better than the alternative."

He stared at her. "I just want it to be over, Meredith." 

"But you don't want to get through it," she said. "You want to have the surgery done, but you don't want the guy with the scalpel to make the incision."

"Why would anyone?" he said. He grunted and started rising to his feet, shaking off her embrace as he gained his balance. He leaned against the door for a moment with his eyes closed before he pushed off. "I can't be numb for this."

"I'm not saying it's wrong for you not to want that, Derek," she said as he stalked over to his suitcase and pulled out his last pair of clean pajama pants. They were dark blue, almost black, with lighter blue stripes so thin they were barely visible from a distance. He slipped them up under the towel, which peeled away from his waist as he brought the pants up. The towel fell to the carpet with a thud. He didn't pick it up, didn't seem to care. He didn't even bother with a shirt. He wandered over to the bed and flopped down onto it without bothering to pull the sheets back.

"Then what do you want from me?" he asked as he pulled his hands up against his face and sighed into his palms. It was a high-pitched breath. Like a moan and an exhalation tied into one warped vocalization.

She slipped into bed next to him, scooted up against him, and rested her head on his shoulder. He was freezing. And tense. Nothing like the excellent, furnacey pillow he usually made.

"Why don't you try telling me what you do remember?" she said, running her hand up and down his chest, trying to offer some sort of comfort to him, any sort of comfort.

He swallowed. "Just the water," he said, his voice flat, tight, almost… shivery. Like there was more to the picture, but he was blanking it out. Or ignoring it. An ignore the man behind the curtain sort of thing. 

"What about the water do you remember?" she asked. 

"I remember looking out. It was gray. There were clouds. And that's it, Meredith."

She propped her elbow up and rested her head on her palm. She stared at his profile. "Why were you looking at the water?" 

"I don't—" His voice cut off. He stared at the ceiling, blink, blink, blinking. 

That was the moment when she realized she was absolutely right. When he sighed and tried to draw himself back in, she knew. He was sliding toward the cliff, but he'd found a rock, dug his heels in, and was standing there, arms straining, back breaking, getting pulled toward the fall, and pushing back into the ground to stop it despite the agony of the weight.

"Why were you looking?" she prodded. 

"A little girl was pointing at it." 

"Why?" 

"Meredith…" 

"Why was she pointing at it?"

He sighed. "Because I asked her where you were…" 

"What did the girl look like?" 

"Blond. Maybe eight. She had… pigtails."

Meredith closed her eyes. She remembered the girl. It was pretty much the only thing from that day that she remembered still with any sort of clarity. That girl had been so lost. She'd never spoken. Not once. And she'd had to watch Meredith fall into the water, get knocked into the Sound by a bloody, delirious man.

"She wore a pink shirt," Meredith said. "And a little brown jacket?" 

"Yeah." 

"Was she okay?"

"What?" 

"When you found her, she was okay?" 

"Meredith, I honestly wasn't thinking about whether she was okay or not when I found her."

Meredith sighed, trying to force the image of the girl out of her head. She was probably fine. Traumatized, but fine. Kids usually recovered a lot faster from that sort of thing than adults did. Right? She hoped she hadn't helped create a dark and twisty apprentice. But that was a worry for another time.

Another time when Derek wasn't breaking before her eyes into little pieces of himself.

"Why did you ask her where I was?" she said. 

"Because I couldn't find you, and I knew she'd been with you…" 

"So, you were looking at the water, and she was pointing. What next?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, Meredith. I don't remember." 

"What happened after you looked at the water?" 

"I don't know," he replied, more forcefully. More… He sounded like a pencil clenched in someone's grip, breaking, breaking, breaking, just waiting for the stuttery, finalized snap to end it all. She watched his face. His eyes flared with a sort of drowning terror, like he could see exactly what she was doing, could see her coming at him with the blade to cut the rope he was hanging onto with a twisting, relentless grip. His breaths came in little distressed gasps. He was close, and all she had to do was push him. All she had to do was cut the rope…

Why are you doing this, Meredith? A little voice asked. Why, why, why.

He'd been so broken the night before, and now she was doing it on purpose, pushing him, prodding him to remember stuff he didn't think he was ready for. Why? She felt almost like she was staring at a botched experiment, trying to repair a gaping hole with only a thread and a needle. There was the damage she'd caused, lying there in the puddle of the man she used to know, who used to smile and laugh and chase her into the elevator. Poke, poke, poke him with a stick. See how awful she'd made things? Poke…

She'd done this. And he wasn't going to get through it on his own. 

_You can't do this to me again._

He'd told her the night before he'd invited her on this little trip. Not in so many words, but he'd told her he couldn't take another hit. He was down for the count. He thought another one would kill him.

And now, whether he remembered it or not, whether he realized it or not, she was utterly convinced he was trying to protect himself. Except it was hurting him. Pain pinched the skin around his eyes, and she wasn't entirely sure it was emotional. The constant tension, all the time, unrelenting, it had to be doing awful things to him, worse than what she could feel in his racing pulse, his stiff frame. He was stuck there in painful limbo, because he wasn't letting himself go on his own. Eventually, physics would win and he'd careen forward under the force of it all whether he wanted to or not… The question was, how much more broken would he get if he kept trying to stall?

That scared her, scared her deeply. She regretted warning him. They'd been words she needed to say. She'd been grateful for the second chance to explain herself without the actual death lying at their feet like a ready-made conclusion. But she'd been right.

He was counting. Anticipating. Making it worse. He'd hit three. He'd hit three and had managed to shove his way past to four, to five, to six, cramming endless numbers into endless, torturous moments of waiting for the blow to come. The anticipation was an enemy. It'd made her say she was sorry, again, and again, and again. It'd made him worry about what was so horrible…

If she hadn't told him, he probably would have let it all slam into him before he would have had a chance to realize what was going on. It would have slammed into him, and it would have been painful, and awful, and all sorts of ugly things. But at least it would have been done.

They both needed it to be done.

They both did.

She took a deep breath, certainty renewed that, to help him, she was going to have to hurt him.

"What happened, Derek?" she asked. 

"Nothing," he snapped.

"Think."

He swallowed. "Stop it," he whispered. He rolled away from her. His torso shuddered.

So close, so close, so close, she thought. She leaned into him, wrapped her arms around him, refusing to let him close her off. 

"Think, Derek," she said, snapping at the space over his left ear as she tried to remember the day on her own. Most of the time she thought about it, it was the moments following, when she'd woken up and Cristina had been hovering. Or when he'd come to visit her in her room, to tell her that her mother had died. She sighed and thought back.

"You saw the water," she said. "It was gray. Relatively calm. It smelled oily from the crash. Gross. I remember wanting to choke from it when I first got off the ambulance, but everything else, the people, the traumas, the pain, it was enough to distract me from it, enough to get me going."

He gripped one of her hands with his own, forcing her to stop her soothing motions. His grasp tightened to an almost painful degree, jamming her knuckles together in a mashed jumble. She doubted he even realized he was doing it. "Stop it," he said, his voice low and pained. 

"There were one or two little sailboats in the distance," she continued, ignoring him. "I wondered why the hell anyone would want to sail on such a crappy day… But, then again, maybe they were just gawkers." 

"I wasn't watching the goddamned sailboats, Meredith," he snapped. "I was trying to find your body, for Christ's sake. Your body, Meredith. Your corpse. You. Dead. I didn't give a shit about sailboats."

He rolled to face her. An angry flush gripped his face, making the paleness of the rest of him seem almost shell white. His eyes, still rimmed with red, swam with a watery film. His mouth opened, and a breathy, pained rasp came pouring from it like blood from an oozing wound. 

"Did you jump in?" she asked.

He blinked, and the watery film finally started spilling over. "I don't remember," he said. 

"Derek…" 

"Stop it," he hissed. "Stop yelling at me. I don't remember. I don't, Meredith. It won't come."

She reached up with her hands and fingered a piece of his hair. It was drying, starting to frizz up into a slightly curled mess. "The rest of it came back just fine, Derek," she whispered as she inched up close to his face. He flinched as she stared at him.

Liar, liar, liar, Derek. You're lying. 

"Stop," he pleaded. 

"The blue glow stick. Were you afraid of it because it made me look like I looked when you found me?"

He closed his eyes. A fat pair of tears squeezed out from under his eyelids. He reached up and tried to sweep them away with his palms, but she grabbed his wrists, halting his attempt.

"What did I look like when you found me?" 

He ripped his arms from her grasp. He quivered. Everything was starting to quiver. He wouldn't open his eyes. His body started to curl. His knees pushed up into hers like he was trying to slip into a fetal position. It made her want to cry. Just let it go, she wanted to scream.

"When did you find me?" she asked. "How long did it take?" 

A grating, hollow sound ripped across his vocal cords. So close, so close, so close. She wanted to stop, she wanted to stop yelling at him, to stop hurting him, but they needed this to end, and he wasn't letting it.

"Did you find me in the water? How did you find me in the water, Derek? Did you carry me to an ambulance? What happened then?"

His eyes snapped open, and he gave her a broken, resigned look. He sighed, but it was more of a sob than anything else. "Please," he said. "Don't do this to me. I don't want to--" 

"See?" she snapped, cutting him off. "You are blocking it. Whether you mean to or not, you are blocking it. It's not that it won't come, Derek. It's that you don't want it to come."

He heaved a sobbing breath. "Please," he said. She put a finger on his lips and shushed him.

"This isn't about what you want anymore. This isn't even about what I want. You think I want this any more than you do? You think I want to see what I did to you firsthand? You're making me do it, Derek. You're lying here in abject misery because you won't push yourself. It sucks. I know it sucks to remember. But it happened. And it's going to have to happen again sometime. And we are never going to get any closure for this until it does. I'm sick of feeling like I need to apologize. And I'm sick of you not being able to look at me the same way anymore without amnesia to help you block my stupidity from your brain. This week has been wonderful, Derek, in a way. It's let us work through things that you and I both know we never, ever would have brought up again, because you internalize until you've created your own black hole of non-escaping thoughts, and I run away until I've lapped myself. But it's a fantasy. This reset is a fantasy. There's still a month's worth of crap piled up that we need to deal with, or we're going to implode. It's not gone just because you don't remember it. I would give anything to run away right now, Derek. But you fell in love with me over a box of crappy cereal, your mom hugged me, I stirred a bowl of cookie batter, you've been saying all these nice things, and I need it. I need something in my life to not suck. I need it more than anything, right now."

She stopped her litany, panting, panting with the sudden heat of her fury at him for doing this, at herself for causing this, at life for just being, and everything else in between because it seemed like a good, unprejudiced, guilt-free way to rage. Nothing was spared.

Love was stupid. But she wanted it.

Life was stupid. But she wanted it.

Family was stupid. But she wanted it.

And she'd had to die. She'd had to die, and he'd had to go through this crap, twice, just for her to figure all of that out definitively.

And it sucked.

Everything. Sucked.

He blinked at her. His lip trembled. "Did you even take a breath?" he asked, his voice quiet, low, tired.

She smiled through the pain. "Possibly."

"You're very, very bossy," he whispered.

"Keeps you in line, right?" she replied.

He closed his eyes, nodded, the barest tick of motion, and sighed.

"I thought…" he began. "I thought, when she pointed… Why is she pointing at the Sound? There's nothing in the Sound except ferry debris. She's just a traumatized little girl, and she's making stuff up because I'm pushing her. But then I looked down."

"And?' she asked.

"The water was murky. But I saw a shadow. I saw something. Pale. Bluish. Like scrubs. I threw off my jacket and ran down the steps, trying to get a better look. I called your name. I called it four times before I realized." 

"Realized?"

He moaned, shook his head. Silent words formed on his lips. I don't want. She saw them there, not spoken, but said, nonetheless, hovering. He jerked, like he'd seen or heard something, something in his head.

"Realized?" she prodded, digging her fingers into his bicep, trying to snap him back out of whatever thrall of memory he was caught in.

Another sob. Just one. He shivered with short, tiny breaths. "That it was utterly useless," he said.

She pulled her nails from his bicep. "Oh," she said. 

"So, I dove in. It was like hitting a wall of ice. For a minute, I couldn't think straight, couldn't see, couldn't breathe. I've never been so scared in my life, Meredith. I was…" 

"What?" 

"I didn't know whether it would be better to find you or not find you. I was terrified of both. And the water was cold, and I looked for you, and my joints started locking up. I couldn't…" 

His eyes snapped open, but the gaze that gripped his eyes was unseeing, distant, flaring with terror. He made a choking noise, pawed at her with his hands. His whole body jerked.

"Couldn't…" she prodded.

He panted, leaned his forehead against hers. His skin was freezing. His body started trembling again. "I don't remember," he said. 

"I think you do."

Liar, liar, liar, Derek. You're lying. She stared at him, but something… Something was different this time.

"Please, stop," he moaned. Something about the way he said it finally brought her pause. Perhaps it was the warbling, unadulterated, breaking terror latching onto each syllable like a barnacle. Perhaps it was the way he blanched, even paler than he had been before. Perhaps it was the curl of his fingers over her hip, tight, tight, tighter. Enough to leave a bruise. Perhaps it was the slow descent of his breathing into something that more resembled choking. Or the way his eyes flared. She didn't know.

_I've never been so scared in my life._

"Okay," she said, twisting a curl of his hair in her fingers. She ran a palm down the side of his face. He closed his eyes, panting through his nose, nostrils flaring. But it calmed, slowly, like the receding of a tide. She'd put her dagger away, and the change was… She couldn't say good. He was still awful. But he wasn't lying there like a sheet of glass to her hammer anymore.

"Okay," she whispered. "I'll stop. It's okay."

They'd made progress. She would have to live with that.

He rolled onto his side and sat up. For a minute, she wondered what he was doing. When she sat up to embrace him, she followed the line of his gaze to the pill bottle that contained his Xanax supply. He took the bottle into his hands and popped out one of the pills. But he didn't take it. He just stared at it, stared at the little thing sitting in his shaky palm.

"I don't want it," he whispered.

"I know."

He tilted his head back and swallowed it dry. He put the bottle back on the nightstand, and then he just sat there. Just sat. For a moment, silence hung in the room like a comforting blanket. She rested her head against his back and listened, just listened as he breathed.

"It's okay," she said.

He didn't reply.

"When this is over, we're going to Joe's," she said, rubbing his stomach. "I'm going to have a big, fat glass, or possibly a whole bottle, of tequila. You can have some of your favorite scotch. On me. We'll get pissed. Well, I'll get pissed, and you can stay sober and laugh at me if you want. But there will be alcohol. Sometimes, alcohol is good."

He snorted with a bitter laugh. "If I could get drunk right now, Meredith, I'd..." His words trailed away.

"You'd?"

He shrugged. "Get drunk. Believe me. I would rather be drunk right now." He sighed. "It's almost tempting anyway."

"I hope you're kidding," she said. Xanax mixed with alcohol could kill.

When he didn't reply, didn't even attempt to make an excuse for what he'd said, a cold sliver of dread jabbed down her throat. "Derek?" she prodded.

He started wringing his hands together. His breaths, which had gradually slowed down to an even rasp after she'd stopped trying to get him to spill his memories out for her to tabulate, stayed calm and slow, but the end of each one crushed in the downward swell of his torso, like he was pressing down on his diaphragm to keep from exploding into sobs. He blinked once, and then he went back to the staring. Distant, empty staring, and not for the first time that evening, she felt like he'd left her alone in the room with the shell of him.

"You matched your scrubs," he said.

"What?" 

"When I pulled you out of the water, you matched your scrubs."

"Okay…" she replied, wondering why, after all the warbling, pitchy distress of the night, it sounded like he was reading a pamphlet about cold medicine or something equally fascinating.

He sighed. "And when I picked you up, you were so light… You were nothing. A drip. You were waterlogged, I could barely walk, and I picked you up like you were nothing." 

"And?" 

"It took three dives. I saw you on the second one. Just drifting in the corner of my eye. The loose parts of your hair spilled out like angel hair pasta. I wanted to grab you then, but I was out of air, so I swam up, broke the surface. I was freezing. I could barely get my arms to work. But I dove again. I nearly passed out. You were all the way at the bottom. I grabbed the scruff of your shirt and pulled. I swam to the dock and crawled out with you. And that was when I had to start giving you CPR. CPR, Meredith. It was like kissing an ice cube. Except it was you. For twenty minutes. For twenty minutes, I breathed for you, and those were the longest twenty minutes of my life."

For a minute he just sat there, wringing his hands, staring, blank, blank, blank. And then he stood and walked out of the room like an automaton. Concern flaring like a phosphorous fire, she moved after him, though it was hardly a race. He walked to the bathroom like he was going to brush his teeth or something, walked, walked. No rush. Nothing wrong there, no…

Except everything was wrong.

It didn't become frantic until he crossed the threshold. The change was fast. Like Superman in a blur or something, or who was that other superhero? The Flash. One moment he was standing on the threshold, the arches of his bare feet wrapped over the base molding. The next, a dull thud followed as he flipped the toilet seat back and collapsed to the floor in a collection of jerky, desperate movements. The very next, the horrible sound of him retching wrapped around her ears and told her without any doubts...

Everything was wrong. Incorrect. Bad. Bzzzzt.

She blinked, suddenly at a loss, unsure, unknowing. He hunched over the bowl, hugging it, shaking, any semblance of flesh tone missing from the sheetrock posing as his skin, and she had no idea what to do. She glanced up and down the hall. Nobody was there. It wasn't even quite ten yet. Everyone was probably still outside, intent on playing well into the night…

She closed the door behind her anyway. She collapsed next to him, ran her hands up and down his back as he quivered. He rested, folded over the bowl, forehead cradled in his crossed arms, breathing, but he didn't move back into a sitting position.

The moment she sat there in indecision was one of the longest in her life. He was barely processing this. This thing that she'd done. And it was all her fault. A litany of apologies collected on her tongue, threatening to spill over, to push through the unresponsive pile of gelatin her inhibitions had become. Apologies for dying in the first place. Apologies for forcing him to think about it and remember. Apologies for the stupidness of the whole thing. So many things were stupid…

She settled on, "I'm here."

Another round of retching took the guilt and pounded it into her pores like a mallet. When he finished this time, he flushed the toilet and leaned back against the wall in a shivery, pale pile. She didn't know what she'd expected, but it wasn't this. Not this strange, sick, not upset, and yet so upset it was scary Derek. She'd never seen him like this. Not even on the night after the accident, when she'd woken up and he'd been standing in the doorway, or later that night, when he'd cradled her. He'd seemed distant, a little shaken. But nothing, nothing like this.

Denial, denial, denial.

Maybe this actually was the first time he was dealing with it…

"Do you want to brush your teeth?" she asked, a sudden, burning need to fill the silence overwhelming her.

She stood and grabbed his toothbrush from the toothbrush cup, squirted some Crest on it, tried not to look at him, didn't even wait for his answer. She wet it under the faucet and handed it down to him, but he didn't take it.

"Derek," she said. "Do you want your toothbrush?"

She shoved it at him like a spear. Or one of those little cocktail toothpicks, like the sword of a fairy. Jab, jab, jab. She felt so silly. So flustered. And she just didn't know what to do.

He seemed… almost… shell-shocked.

After a long set of moments, he reached up for the toothbrush and took it, but he was like a ghost sitting there. He brushed in slow, even strokes as he stared blankly at the space in front of him. After a few minutes, he struggled to his feet and spat everything out in the sink, swished with some water, spat again. And then he was back on the floor, staring, breathing.

"Can I…?" she asked, not finishing the question. She scooted close to him, until she lined up against his side. He didn't protest, didn't say a word. She wrapped her arms around him. He wobbled at the movement, like he wasn't really consciously holding his body upright. "Will you talk to me?" she asked.

"There's nothing left," he said, his voice dull and flat. "Stop asking." 

"Stop asking what?"

"I don't remember any more."

"Derek, I wasn't trying to..." she said, halting when she saw from the look on his face that it didn't matter, because listening was something that was not happening with his ears right then.

"We got off the plane, and I sat down in the car, and that's it," he said. "I don't remember any more." 

"Then that's all there is. If you can't remember the accident at this point, I doubt you ever will. It's common for that to happen. You know that." 

"I'm done." 

"Yes. You made it," she whispered. 

"We talked about marriage, and you said you didn't want it," he said.

"You said you didn't want it either, Derek." 

He laughed. "I know." His lip quivered. The laugh dissolved. He turned to stare at her, his eyes streaked over with tears, and she felt horrible about it, but she almost wanted to sigh with relief. This was at least better than the non-reaction from before.

He cried, but it wasn't really a weeping sort of thing, wasn't overwhelming, not like the shower earlier that day. It was quiet. She wouldn't have known it was happening if it wasn't obvious from his glistening face. She ran her hands through his hair and just sat with him, waited it out while he exhausted himself. He didn't try to wipe anything away. He just sat there, leaking, quiet. The horrible tension was gone from his muscles. His skin was warming up, too.

He rested against her for a long, long time before he said, "You matched your scrubs. How could you ever want to do that to yourself?" 

"I didn't, Derek. It wasn't a conscious thought, or some sort of premeditated thing. It just… happened. And it's something I will regret for the rest of my life."

He grunted with a tortured sort of breath. "Yeah. Me too."

She didn't know what that meant.

And he didn't tell her. 


	24. Chapter 22

Derek woke up drowning. His whole body jerked. A choking breath swept down his throat as the murky water parted before his eyes, leaving darkness. He blinked and swept his hands down over his face. His shaky palms slipped on the sweat until he got to the stubble. 

He sat up. The room spun. Everything felt unsettled, almost like someone was using his stomach as a popcorn popper. His heart throbbed unevenly in his chest. 

Meredith lay snoring next to him. They'd migrated back to the bedroom after a while, stumbled into an uneasy sleep. She'd spooned him, and he'd lain there, listening to her breathing, just listening. Something he'd done countless nights since her accident. Lain there. Listening to her breathe. Somewhere along the line, he'd fallen asleep, and somewhere after that, they'd apparently rolled apart.

Breathe, breathe, breathe. He tried to rein himself. His innards curled. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and threw his legs over the side of the mattress as he leaned down over his knees. 

He'd thought he was done. Done with this. There was nothing left to surprise him, unless by some miracle he remembered the car crash, but that was extremely unlikely. If the concussion had made him develop some sort of anxiety disorder, he didn't know what he was going to do. He didn't...

He growled. Stop. Worrying. Stop it. 

He forced himself to stand up, wobbling slightly. His balance went on walkabout for a moment when his hand left the support of the mattress, and he flailed, knocking the clock, the pill bottle, and his sunglasses off the nightstand as he struggled to right himself. Meredith snorted and rolled over, but she didn't wake.

He stood, leaning against the nightstand like a runner stretching out his calves, breathing, listening to her breathing. Stop it. The Xanax bottle lay on the ground near his feet. Stop. Worrying. He watched the bottle for a long set of moments before he realized. 

He'd vomited up the last pill. He wasn't on anything right then.

He leaned down to pick up the bottle. He had the cap popped open before he stopped, paused with his index finger fishing for a pill. No. He didn't need it anymore. There was nothing left to give him a panic attack, which was really what this stuff was for. Not generalized anxiety treatment. Nothing left. He put the bottle back on the nightstand.

He could deal with this. He... He swallowed. There was no way he was going to get more sleep like this until he calmed himself down. Nervous energy propelled him through the wobbling seasickness to the doorframe, where he hovered, breathing, letting the spinning settle again. His muscles shook. He rested his right temple against the molding.

He watched her sleeping. 

Her hair tumbled over her in a haphazard array. One arm clutched under the pillow, propping her head up. The other dangled over the side of the bed. One knee was drawn up toward her armpit. The other was straight. Her face barely poked out from the tumble of her hair and the pillows. Even in the darkness, even under all the concealment, she still seemed more alive, more colorful than she had been in the water.

He swallowed and stared at her for a long, long time before he felt well enough to push off the doorframe and keep moving. He wandered down the hall through the dim, comforting glow of the plug in nightlights and eased himself down the steps. By the time he made it to the landing, he felt marginally better. Marginally.

He shuffled into the kitchen, only to find Kathy sitting at the breakfast table sipping at a mug of coffee. Her curly hair was mussed into a wayward, flying mess. She wore an old, beat up, terrycloth bathrobe the color of a washed-out lime, but no slippers. Her bare feet were wrapped back under the legs of the chair. The overhead lights were on, but tamped down to something so dim it was barely noticeable. 

"Is that decaf?" he asked as he moved into the room with careful, deliberate steps. He could do careful and deliberate. It's when he tried anything more significant that things went a little crazy.

She started as he moped past toward the cabinet. "Um, yeah. There's more in the pot if you want some," she replied.

He moved to the counter, resting for a moment while the room swirled. He reached up into the cabinet for a mug. He poured himself a full cup from the pot, which seemed heavy enough that it made his arm shake. He brought the cup back and sat down next to her.

"What are you doing up?" he asked. He took a long sip of the bitter, hot liquid. It was nearly warm enough to scald, but not quite. He panted, trying to cool his mouth off as he leaned up, gripped his temples with his fingers, and started to rub in slow, soothing circles.

"Nancy," Kathy said. "I've been sitting with her. She's really bad, Derek. I don't know..." She sighed and swept her hands back through her mess of curls. They flattened against her scalp, only to spring out again.

He stared down into his coffee cup. "Oh," he said. He didn't have much else to say about Nancy right then. She was... Well, he knew the place she was in right then. Asking about it, speculating about it, was useless. "Maybe you should just leave her be, Kath."

"If she flies off to Timbuktu like you did, then I'll leave her be. As long as she stays, she's asking for help, even if she's not asking," Kathy said. "You should talk to her. Really talk. I know she's been awful to you, but..."

Silence crept into the room. Derek grunted before taking another sip of his coffee. Kathy watched his hands suspiciously as he held the mug in a shaky, two-handed grip. 

"What about you, Der? Why are you awake? You look awful. Who died?"

A cold well of pain settled in the back of his throat and slipped down into his stomach. Who died. Yeah. That about summed it up. He sighed as everything that had slowly been settling agitated again. He shifted in his seat, swallowed, let loose a breath that raked across his vocal cords. "I forgot my pill last night and I-" 

"Again?" Kathy interrupted. "Derek, you can't just not take doses. You could have seizures..."

"I've been on it for less than forty-eight hours, Kath," he snapped. "I'm not going to get dependant in two days, and I'm certainly not going to have withdrawal seizures."

He fumbled across the placemat for the coffee cup, fumbled, fumbled, trying to push down on the upswing of thoughts he didn't want. Who died. Meredith died. Meredith drowned. At least all her rampant apologizing finally made sense to his brain, now that he could connect the words with the awful picture in his head. The awful...

"Still, Derek," Kathy was saying through the din of his racing thoughts. He breathed, trying to absorb it, but pretty much only the cadences hit him. "Xanax is a powerful psychotropic drug. If you keep yo-yoing whether you take it or not, you're going to have some side-effects..." 

A smash. A wet creep burned his bare chest, hands, and lap. He hissed as he pushed back from the table. Coffee was everywhere, dripping over the side, soaking the placemat with a spreading, crawling brown stain. The mug had slipped. Slipped in his grasp...

"Like that, for instance. Tremors again?" Kathy said. She got up and retrieved the roll of paper towels from overtop the refrigerator.

He stared down at himself in disbelief. Coffee. Everywhere. He watched his shaky hands. "I'm not going to take it anymore," he said as she started moving around, mopping up the mess. 

"Derek, are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked, frowning at him as she handed him a wad of paper towels. "You're--"

"I can't, Kathy," he said, dabbing at himself robotically, soaking the warm sting away. It had been hot enough to hurt a little, but not enough to burn before it had started evaporating. "I can't be a surgeon on Xanax. I can't. I-"

"Hey," she said. She stopped her mopping and put a warm hand on his bare shoulder. "This isn't permanent, Derek. It's just to help you cope..."

"Cope." 

"Yes."

He couldn't stop the ironic, bitter laughter that pealed from his lips. He put his elbows on the cold table. His skin slipped once, twice on the barely dried mess that Kathy had cleaned up before he gained purchase. He collapsed his face into his hands. Cope. If history was any lesson, he sucked at coping. And he didn't think a little pill was going to fix it. Sure, it might fix the fact that he couldn't hold his hands still, the fact that the room swayed, but it didn't change the fundamental thing that was doing the coping. Him. 

Meredith drifted in the water behind his eyes, cold, still, and blue. 

"Do you think I'm a bad person?" he asked.

"No," Kathy replied. She threw the towels out in the waste bin near the counter. The little flip door wobbled back and forth for several moments after the cluster of towels hit it and went through. She sat down and scooted her chair up.

"I just..." He sighed, heavy, frustrated. "How did I?"

"Derek..." 

He looked up at her. She stared back at him, wide blue eyes serious, calculating, concerned. He sucked in one breath, two. His eyes pinched with a stabbing sort of pain, his sight blurred, and then everything fell back out of him in a twisted tumble. 

"Meredith drowned," he said between sucking, racking breaths that had his body rocking back and forth like a boat on a wave. "A month ago, she drowned. I pulled... Pulled her out of the water. She was resuscitated after more than three hours of clinical death. And I wasn't dealing so well with it. I wanted to come home so badly, Kathy. I didn't know what else to do, I..."

"Hey," Kathy whispered. She stopped his swaying, gripping his shoulders in her arms. "Hey, hey," she soothed. 

"I have no idea what I'm doing, Kathy." 

"Do you ever?"

"I used to be a good person. And then someone shot my glass house. The dirty pit fighter that got left behind... He disgusts me," Derek said, his lip curling in hatred.

"Derek, you're one of the sweetest people I know," Kathy said, her voice forceful and definitive. "I know what Addison and Mark did really threw you. It's natural for your self-esteem to take a hit, but you can't let what's happened own you."

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, jammed his shaky palms into his armpits. When he closed his eyes, he got the sensation that he was sitting on a turntable again. He opened them and stared at the ceiling, consigned to watch the room blur with tears that didn't fall. He blinked, watching the fan loop around in slow, dreary circles that hardly made the air move. It hung down from the rafter that bisected the skylight. Beyond the glass, murky black hovered like a one-dimensional sheet. Little stars barely pricked through the dim but blanketing glare of the overhead lights on the windows, a glare that showed his reflection back to him, staring up from below.

Who died?

"I treated her like shit," he said.

"Addison?"

"Meredith. Well, both, really." 

"Derek, what are you..." Kathy blinked. She leaned back in her chair, took a deep, deep breath, and nodded, like she was preparing for some sort of... fight the good fight... thing. "Okay. You're going to have to help me out here before I can offer you my opinion. Because you're all over the map."

"Don't psychoanalyze-"

"Bull, Derek," she snapped. "You wouldn't have brought this up, not to me, unless you wanted help, no matter how stubborn you want to be about admitting it. I swear, you and Nancy are like twins sometimes."

He swallowed. Reflection-him stared back down. He looked bad. Just... Bad. Not exactly sick, not unfit. Just. Bad. The analog clock on the wall ticked off the moments. Two-thirty. Two-thirty and one second. Two seconds. Three. The picture on the glass seemed to warp a little, warp as it curled into the wavering, amorphous blur that had been in the space of water between him and Meredith on the day she'd died. 

She'd floated like some sort of... Like the astronauts in those documentaries about space on the Discovery channel. Floating, drifting. Except the astronauts weren't lifeless. And she had been. Lifeless. Blue with the chill. A popsicle. His Meredith, blue, cold, and dead. 

He hadn't really thought about it, hadn't processed that it'd been sort of on purpose until he'd been stuck in the agony of waiting after he'd delivered her to her saviors. She'd been twenty feet from the edge of the pier. Twenty feet. It had been difficult to swim with the cold, but he'd managed, somehow, to do six times that distance. More than that, even, because he'd searched in various directions. And if he had been able to do it, despite the fact that his joints had been locking up, despite the fact that the chill had addled his brain to the point that when he had been climbing out of the water, it had taken him a moment to realize the full extent of what was going on, that he'd had Meredith in his arms... Meredith with no pulse.

If he had been able to do that, been able to swim down, swim up, swim down, swim up, swim down, swim up... Why hadn't she at least been able to make it twenty feet? She'd been able to swim laps around him in his lake. He knew. He'd tried to catch her more than once, only to get left in the figurative dust. He'd tried to convince himself she'd hit her head, been shocked, something, anything. Except... There'd been no bump on her head anywhere. There'd been no cuts. No bruises to indicate any sort of trauma. True, one didn't need a bruise or a wound for there to be a head trauma, but... But. But. It all came down to that. The but. Hovering there at the end of all his excuses for her.

The frantic CPR hadn't started until he'd gotten into the ambulance, and his fingers and limbs had started to burn and agonize with the pain of reheating. His own skin had been a little blue, too. His hair had dripped cold, icy water. But he hadn't paid much attention as he'd slammed the heel of his palm into her chest. One, two, three, four, five. Breathe. 

When she'd told him later that a patient had knocked her in, he'd almost let it go. She hadn't jumped. Hadn't tried to drown herself. But the nagging question... Why hadn't she at least tried to swim? It had pounded on him for weeks like a slowly demolishing wrecking ball.

He blinked back to himself, only to find Kathy still staring at him, still concerned. 

"I remembered her drowning," he said. He leaned down onto the table and started worrying at his index finger with the fingers of his other hand. "Earlier, I remembered. She's been so worried that I would... blame her when I remembered. Or... I don't know. Not trust her anymore... I promised I'd try to keep perspective..."

Perspective. He wanted to take a sledgehammer and beat the word to death. He had perspective. Before, he'd been wandering into the wrong conclusion with the constant drumbeat of the why, why, why. The wrong conclusion that she somehow needed him to breathe for her, that she couldn't stand on her own two feet. Maybe he'd known on some deep level that he'd been compensating for the reality. Maybe he'd known that he'd been shelling up, almost pulling away because of said reality. Now. Now, he had perspective, enough to know that the breathing thing was bullshit, and the reality... Compensating for it was impossible. It wasn't murky anymore, wasn't some weird, nebulous idea. Perspective. He wanted a mallet. 

Who died?

"Am I to understand that this wasn't an entirely... accidental drowning?" Kathy asked, her voice low, quiet, cautious.

"It... wasn't an accident. But it wasn't. Wasn't..."

"Suicide?"

"No," he said. "It wasn't that."

"Okay..."

"She... She just didn't swim when she, well, she might have been able to."

"Has she told you this? You're not just jumping to conclusions?"

"We've... talked about it," Derek said.

Kathy sighed. "Derek, it's natural for you to be harboring some guilt over this. Family members of people who have committed suicide often feel like there was something they could have done differently or-"

He shook his head, back and forth, back and forth like a windshield wiper. "She was so... When I met her. She was so happy. And bossy. She was bossy. And she just seemed... lighter. And then I... I... broke her, Kathy. The thing with Addison. I... I should have just signed the papers the first time."

Kathy sat beside him silently for a moment. Her soft breathing sliced the air like thunder in the quiet. The chair creaked as she shifted. Derek stared at his hands. Just stared. Stared. The world blurred out. He started to worry at his fingers again, wringing his hands through each other in a nervous outlet for the movement his body was demanding of him.

None of this would have happened if he had done the right thing from the start.

"Wait," Kathy said. "You think you're the entire reason she died?"

"No," he said. His skin started to burn with the friction from the slip, slip, slide of his palms. "She had other things going on. But I could have been there for her more... And I can't help but think that maybe if I hadn't come along, the straw that broke her back wouldn't have... seemed so heavy."

Kathy's hands came down over top his own. She grasped them, pulled them apart, forcing him to look at her, to stop focusing on such a mundane outlet for his tension.

"Okay, Derek," she said. "First of all, you cannot, cannot, cannot let yourself fall into the trap of blaming yourself for what she did. She did it, Derek. She did. Unless you've graduated from fixing brains to controlling them, you are not to blame. Okay?"

His lip started to quiver. He blinked. The blur resolved for a moment as the water squeezed out and down over his cheeks, only to come back, resolve, come back, resolve, come back. He sucked in a breath. 

"She was blue, Kathy. She was so blue. And cold. And I tried to--"

"You. Are not. To blame, Derek," she enunciated, squeezing his hands.

"I don't know what to do, Kath. I don't..."

"Well, you can start by stopping that. Stop trying to figure out what to do and just let yourself grieve. You're not going to get anywhere if you don't deal with that first. She may still be here, but you need to grieve, and from what I've seen, you haven't really let yourself do it. You can't just tuck it all away. It needs to come out, Der."

She released his hands. He let them fall into his lap. He stared at them. 

Who died?

He wrapped his arms around his stomach and hunched over. An empty moan curled out of him. It sounded like a dying man, begging for water. Except there was already water everywhere, clogging his mind, clogging his eyes, clogging his throat. 

"Today," he said, his breath rasping. "Earlier, I was wondering if we'd ever talked about marriage. I couldn't understand why we wouldn't have. I... She's the one, Kath. She's the love of my life. And now. Now I..."

"Now?"

"I feel like I would be... trapping her in the pain that killed her in the first place. Like I would be a..." He swallowed. "A murderer for even asking." The words slipped off his tongue with the awful taste of carrion. He sighed. He couldn't... He felt so twisted up inside, he just couldn't...

Couldn't...

Another long silence filled the room. He could feel her staring at him, staring through him, peeling off his layers like bits of onion. He couldn't bring himself to look at her, so he settled on collapsing his face into his hands again and heaving a sigh.

Who died?

Perspective.

Half a day ago, he'd been worried. Worried, terrified about what he was going to remember, but he'd been sure that whatever it was wasn't even going to come close to strangling his desire to spend the rest of his life with her. And now, not only was the prospect of an actual life after Addison slain under the crush of reality, it had turned out that he'd asked Meredith before, at least mentioned it, and she'd reacted with what nearly amounted to disgust. He hadn't wanted it either, well, not enough to press it. Where had the kind of disconnect happened that a month ago he hadn't wanted it, and now he was stuck sitting at the table in agony while his psychiatrist sister cut him into little Freudian pieces, pieces that wished he didn't want it so badly it ached. Nothing made sense anymore.

"That's a bit melodramatic, I think," Kathy said, ripping him from his thoughts.

"But I..."

"Everyone has relationship problems, Derek. Everyone. Don't make Romeo and Juliet out of this when all you've got is Derek and Meredith. You might have broken her heart. But the crazy thing about people is that the heart is remarkably resilient. People have a lot of room for love, Derek... If you were as bad for her as you're saying, don't you think you would be alone at this reunion right now? She can say no, Derek. She can say enough. She's perfectly capable of it. Whatever happened in the water with her, that's between her and the water. I don't think you factored into the equation."

He sighed. Derek the pit fighter equals misery. "Then explain the equation to me, Kathy, because I sure don't-"

"One plus four equals nine," she replied abruptly.

He swallowed. "What?"

"Humans don't make sense, Derek. It's why Addison can screw Mark, and Mark can screw Addison. It's why you can treat the woman you love like shit, why, on a bad, bad day, you can break all the rules you've set up for yourself, no matter how firm you think they are, and why Meredith can decide on a whim that swimming is for the fishes. Sometimes that's all there is to it. Sure, we can guess at what might have contributed, we can make an effort to not let those things happen again, but don't assume you'll always get the same answer to the same numbers on any given day."

He ran his hands through his hair, trying to ignore the aching lump that was forming in the back of his throat. "That doesn't feel very comforting, Kathy." 

"You're not a dirty pit fighter, Derek. You're a nice guy with a bit of a god complex that got kicked into the nine by the four a few times. Does Meredith seem happy now, to you?"

"Yeah," he replied, a smile crawling across his face as the sudden redirection gave him levity. Meredith happy. That gave him levity. She'd been so wonderful this week. She'd been so worried about dealing with his family, so, so, worried, but he got the impression she was actually having fun now, despite being a little overwhelmed. 

_I stirred cookie batter._

She'd been so happy over such a simple thing. And this whole week she'd been... So strong. So very, very strong. Lighter than he could ever remember her being since Addison. 

He'd been falling to pieces, and she'd been there, picking him up. He hadn't realized until now how odd it felt to have the tables turned. He'd always considered himself Meredith's support, always felt like he was having to prop the both of them up, at least, he had since they'd gotten back together. It hadn't felt like that the first time around. But she'd changed. And that dynamic, the original one, they'd lost it somewhere along the way. But now she was picking him up, and again, he was brought back around in a circle.

Perspective. 

Not being able to breathe... Bullshit. 

"Do you think she needs counseling?"

"No," he said. "Not unless she wants it for... Other things. But not this." 

Palms. On his face. Pulling his gaze away from his hands. His world shifted into a close-up of Kathy as she leaned in, eyes flashing. "Then the only thing you can do at this point is take care of you. Take care of you, and try not to do the stupid stuff that hurt her again. The rest is out of your control. And that does not mean taking yourself out of the equation for her sake. Because that? That would hurt her, Derek. And that? That, you could definitely blame yourself for. You take yourself out of the equation if that's what you think you need, not because that's what you think she needs." 

He blinked, blinked against the new swell of upset. "I need her so much it hurts, Kath," he said, his voice low and grating.

Kathy smiled and squeezed his shoulder. "Then stop worrying about the rest, Derek. It's just not important. Okay?"

"Okay."

"And it's not your fault. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Get some sleep, Der," Kathy said. She stood up from her chair, ruffled his hair, stretched, and yawned. "You're pushing yourself way too much. Four days ago we were wondering if you were going to die."

He nodded. With a sigh, he pushed up from the table. The earlier swimming, spinning was gone, slowly diminished over time as he'd had a chance to slow his mind down to a reasonable pace. He double-checked to make sure the coffee had all been picked up, and then he wandered back to the bedroom.

Meredith lay in much the same position as she had been. He slipped into bed next to her. Grieve, Kathy had said. Grieve. He wrapped his arms around her torso and pulled her up against himself tightly. She made a little squeak of surprise as she wakened enough to realize she was being moved, but she relaxed almost immediately.

"Hey," she whispered.

He kissed the side of her neck, just under her right ear. "Hey," he whispered.

Her warm body pressed into his. Her torso shifted with each of her long, soothing breaths. He slipped his hand up underneath her shirt and rubbed his palm along her stomach, relishing the feel of the rise and fall. Her lotion made her smell like cinnamon. He let it sweep down into the back of his throat and soothe him.

"I almost lost you," he said, mumbling into the skin of her shoulder as he kissed her there.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I know," he said. "Me, too."

Her breaths evened out and the snores returned, but he didn't mind. He ran his fingers through her hair, just enjoyed being close.

Who died?

Derek the dirty pit fighter.


	25. Chapter 23

**Author's Notes: So sorry this took so long to post! This part went through several iterations that resulted in me scrapping it completely before I finally figured out what the heck I was trying to do with it, which resulted in it taking a long, long time for me to actually finish it. I hope you like it. As of this part, this story has surpassed SOSG in length, and it's obviously not done yet. Wow! And, once again, I'd just like to take a moment to gush over all the comments I've received. Thank you so much :) You have no idea how much they brighten my day! **

* * *

She woke up pulled against him like a teddy bear. His arms encircled her waist, and his soft, even breathing swept against the crook of her neck. The heat of his body flooded through the skin of her back better than any warm blanket ever could. They fit together.

For a moment, she just listened. Kids and other people thumped around downstairs. It was 10AM already, according to the clock. She'd slept in. A lot. He'd slept in. A lot. The smell of multiple coffee brews had had long enough to waft up from the kitchen, sharp, bitter, and rousing. A dim light fed by the hint of sun peaking in through the sides of the curtains kept the room out of pitch darkness and hovering somewhere between gloomy and cheerful. Just… Peaceful. Tranquil.

She smiled for a moment, basking in it. Derek had remembered everything. For that one blissful moment, everything was fine again. And she enjoyed that moment while it lasted. The clock ticked off a minute before she finally let the perfection fade into the reality that was her, slowly being pushed into the wakefulness where pretty much nothing was fine, because Derek had remembered everything. And he hadn't dealt with it all that well. Derek had remembered everything, and she really, really had to pee.

"Derek, I have to get up," she whispered as she rubbed his forearms with her palms.

His grip shifted, but he didn't stir. Not even his breathing switched gears, telling her she'd utterly failed to wake him up. And, not for the first time this week, she found herself regretting having to rouse him from something that was healing him. She wasn't used to him being such a heavy sleeper these days.

She worked her fingers at his hands, trying to unlock his grip without rousing him, but it only made him groan and clutch her more tightly. He pulled a tent of her shirt into his grip like it was a blanket. "Derek, come on," she said, no longer whispering. "I need to…" She squirmed against him. "Get up!"

His breathing snuffled. His body twitched. He moved his hands away from her. "Sorry," he muttered, rolling his face down into the pillow when she slipped away from his grip. "What time?" he said without bothering to look at the clock hovering on the nightstand not two feet away, his voice distorted by the pillow and sounding more like a groan than anything else.

"It's ten, Der, you don't have to get up yet. Your appointment isn't until twelve-thirty," she said as she rolled to face him with a frown.

He flopped his head to the side, his eyelids cracking open into small, sleep-hazed crescents. The barest hint of his blue eyes were visible under the low spread of his lashes. For a moment he stared dully, like he couldn't quite figure out what he was looking at, but then his lips curled into a lazy grin, and something twinkled in his eyes as the skin around them crinkled. "Morning," he slurred, still half stuck in whatever dream he was surely having.

She couldn't help but smile back at him. She reached across the pillow to brush a wayward curl off of his forehead. "Stitches out today," she whispered as she ran her fingers across the bumps just along where his hairline had been before they'd shaved it back a centimeter. He had a thick layer of fuzz growing in already.

"Mmm-hmm," he murmured. His eyes drooped shut. And then he was out again, sort of like a light switch had been thrown, just out. Gone. His breaths deepened into raspy, thick things that weren't quite snoring, and he was languishing back in whatever dream he'd been having.

She wondered if it was a happy dream or a sad one. She couldn't tell just from his face. He seemed peaceful enough. But… What would she dream about the first night after if she were to have forgotten and subsequently remembered the past year? Probably pain and suffering and death and twisty trauma. She frowned. Yeah, perfection was probably a pipedream.

She ran a hand down his back. He didn't even twitch. She leaned down until her lips were inches from his right ear. "I'm here, and I'm fine," she whispered. Just in case. Just in case the dream was bad. He grunted, barely a pitch above a regular breath, and then went back to peaceful, long, relaxed inhales and exhales. It probably wasn't a bad dream since he wasn't tossing or twitching. But, still.

She got up with a sigh. She stretched and wandered out into the hall. Bathroom first. Her morning traipsed groggily on from there. She showered, got dressed, and wandered downstairs before she really caught up with the fact that she was awake.

She felt tired. The night before had been exhausting. And not the good kind of exhausting. It promoted a kind of tiredness not at all like the weary ache that followed a hard jog or a long, life-saving surgery. It was the kind of tiredness that told you you'd hit bottom. The kind that came piggybacking with the worst tequila hangover and a horribly bad one-night stand where the finish had been faked, or perhaps the kind that came from waking up from drowning, the kind that came from struggling to say just one word. Ouch. Except things were so bad, it came out more like Orughch. It was that kind of tiredness. Where one stupid word was torture.

She poured herself a cup of the latest coffee brew. Derek's family loitered in various places throughout the house. Some sat in the kitchen, conversing lightly over magazines and newspapers. Quiet voices fluttered in from the den. Several people were apparently still asleep, Kathy, Nancy, of course Derek, and she didn't see Chris either. Meredith gathered that the capture the flag game had gone on past midnight from the various murmurs curling around her in a haze. Blue team had won, but only by two points.

People said good morning, but she wandered through it in a fog out onto the deck, which was blessedly empty of loiterers. Kids ran around, playing in the yard. Ellen stood out at the edge of the lawn in a frilly sundress and a big floppy sunhat while she watered plants, occasionally lifting the hose to squirt it at an unsuspecting, giggling child. Meredith thought maybe they were passing too close to Ellen on purpose. Another swell of laughter pierced the air, and kids went scattering like ants as the hose made a gross splurching sound, and water fanned everywhere.

She had barely set her coffee on one of the little glass side tables and collapsed into one of the sliding rocker chairs before the deck door trundled open, and Stewart stumbled out in a motley, patchwork flannel bathrobe, eyes red-rimmed, hair sticking out in every direction. He had her purse clenched in a two-fingered grasp, sort of like she imagined he would hold a smelly diaper. His lip was curled, and pain pinched his face.

"Your purse is shrieking," he said, his voice low and grating and far from playful as he shoved the purse toward her.

She stared at it dumbly for a moment. The ringing stopped as the caller presumably hung up. And then it started all over again in less than thirty seconds.

Stewart, who had started to smile blissfully at the momentary silence, degenerated into a scowl and a sharp wince. "Please, make it stop. Or at least cut out my brain so the pain doesn't matter anymore. Has Derek taught you how to do a brainectomy yet? I imagine you just spoon repeatedly until you scrape."

She laughed despite herself. "Unfortunately, the only cure for hangovers is to not drink, Stu. Thanks," she said as she took the purse from his now shaking grip.

Stewart made a noise somewhat akin to a growl before wandering off. He slid the deck door closed behind him as he shambled back into the house.

"Cristina, I think you gave Stewart a migraine," Meredith said, not even bothering to look at the caller ID.

"So, is McDreamy's brain all unscrambled?" Cristina asked without precursor. "Which one is Stewart?"

"Yeah, Derek's fine, well, as far as his memory goes, anyway. Stewart is Sarah's husband."

"That's good," said Cristina, who didn't even bother to reply about the Stewart thing at first. "How long did it take? And which one is Sarah again?" she added as an afterthought.

"He remembered the ferry crap last night. Sarah is the leggy, size-zero Addison knockoff cardiothoracic surgeon girl. She's very nice once you get past hating her for being far too gorgeous to be real."

A long, long silence intervened. The line hissed with a vague sort of static, just behind the realm of normal notice, thrumming. Cristina breathed. Children in the yard giggled and laughed and did kiddy things. Ellen had stopped watering for a moment and was inspecting the wall of bushes along her fence with what, from this distance, looked to be a frown.

"Oh," Cristina finally said.

"It's okay," Meredith replied, leaning back in the rocker chair. She started to sway back and forth. The chair slid along the tracks, simulating rocking. It was kind of relaxing. Kind of. "I think. We're okay. It was rough. But… we're okay."

She took a sip of coffee and gagged at the bitter taste. Were things okay? Derek hadn't really talked much. At all. But then he'd woken her up and hugged her, and everything had seemed fine. So… What did that mean?

"Are you sure?"

No. "Yeah."

"How is the McFamily now?" Cristina asked. "Still scaring the crap out of you?"

Meredith paused to take another sip. "Actually…"

"Oh, no."

"What?"

"You can't say 'actually' like that. It means you like them."

"Well."

"Oh, god," Cristina moaned. Something thumped. Perhaps her head against a wall. Or her hand against a desk. Or both in unison. "You like them. I thought you were trying to politick them into liking you. But no. This has gone too far. You like the McDreamyettes. Please, don't tell me they have you singing Kum-Bah-Yah over dinner and baking cupcakes for the children."

"Cookies," Meredith replied absently as a smile fell across her face. The breeze lapped at her skin. Ellen was actually crouching now, looking at the underside of her bushes. The sunhat concealed her expression from view. Kids had gone over to see what the big deal was.

"Cookies!" Cristina snapped, a whuffing hiss of air overwhelming the cell phone's little speakers for a moment. Meredith winced. "They have you baking cookies? Meredith. Come home before you get infected."

"Infected with what?"

"With, with… Icky, gummy… Disgusting…" Cristina's voice fell away, only to erupt again. "It's children, Mere," Cristina said, as if that were the only explanation necessary. "They've got you baking. For kids. You're an aunt. You're Aunty Meredith."

"Why do I get the feeling you're freaking out about this more than I am?" Meredith asked with a laugh.

"Because if you, miss dark and twisty bar mistress, can become Aunty Meredith in five fucking days, I'm doomed, Mere," Cristina whined. Actually whined. "Wifey Cristina. Aunty Meredith. It's gross. Love is disgusting. I hate it. It tastes like crap."

"Um, Cristina?" Meredith replied, barely suppressing a chuckle as it threatened to bubble out of her. "I take it you haven't picked a cake yet?"

"No, I haven't picked a damned cake," Cristina snapped. "I'm trying to decide whether to hang myself."

Meredith sighed. "Cristina…"

"No. Please. I'm nauseated. We're changing the subject."

"Okay," Meredith said. "So, any news on Chief yet?"

"Not that subject," Cristina said, a little too abruptly.

Meredith frowned. What was **that** supposed to mean? "Cristina?"

"No," Cristina stammered. "No news." And then she laughed. Awkwardly. Like a little nervous thing, it was tacked on to the end of the sentence like a tumor that wasn't supposed to be there. Flitty. Weird. She laughed. Cristina didn't laugh like that. She didn't stammer either. She…

"What's with the thing?" Meredith asked.

"The thing?"

Meredith stood and started to pace. "The thing where you paused and got all tongue-tied. You're Cristina. You have deliberate pauses filled with a lack of words. You don't get tongue-tied."

Cristina sighed. "Meredith…"

Meredith felt a lump form in her throat. Derek must not have gotten picked. That was the only explanation that made any sense. But…

"No, tell me. Derek didn't get picked, right? You can tell me, Cristina. I'm not going to go all wilty just because Derek lost out," she said, despite the fact that she felt like things were suddenly much less happy than they had been only moments before. Derek had really, really wanted that job. Really. She'd known his chances were slim, in jeopardy even, from what he'd said, from things she'd seen, just from the fact that he'd bothered to take this vacation at such a critical time. But… She'd been hoping. And, now, it was all falling away from her like a tide receding. Derek had missed out. And that sucked. "I just want to know," she added with a whisper. She hoped it was at least Burke if it wasn't Derek. Addison or Mark would… sting.

"It's not that. Nobody has been chosen yet. It's just…" Cristina said. The phone snarled as Cristina did something with it. From the rise and swell of static, it almost sounded like she was pacing. Pacing. Cristina pacing. Cristina pacing? "He's not even being considered, Meredith," Cristina finally said. "I heard the Chief's secretary blabbing about it to one of the nurses. I swear, it's like they don't realize people with ears are all over the place and listening."

"But…" Meredith said, swallowing. "Why? Did he withdraw and not tell me?"

"No, not exactly…"

Meredith stood up from the chair and started to pace right along with Cristina. Except Cristina wasn't pacing now from the sound of it. She was just quiet. And broody-sounding. And… Meredith didn't know what to do. Didn't know quite what to think yet. "Just what does that mean?" she asked.

"She said it was because of you," Cristina said.

"But," Meredith replied. The world seemed to glow a little brighter. She slammed her hand up to her forehead to shield her eyes from the suddenly glaring sun. The wind was getting sucked out of her bit by bit. She started to feel a little nauseated. "You and Burke. I thought…"

"Not because you're an intern, Meredith," Cristina said, softly, quietly, gently, like she thought it might break Meredith into pieces. "I didn't hear all of it, but it sounded specifically like Webber doesn't want to consider McDreamy because of you."

"Specifically?"

"Specifically."

"But…"

She felt her stomach dropping into her shoes. She blinked, but the world blurred behind a veil of stinging tears. Blink, and the world blurred more. Blink. Blink. Blink. She wiped her eyes.

_I'm not going to get it, Mere._

He'd said it. He'd told her point blank that he didn't think he was going to get the job. He'd told her. He'd told her. He'd told her. He'd known. Flat out known.

_It's not a mistake._

His whispered words echoed in her head like thunder rumbling through a canyon, building, building on the walls of rock until it was something huge, cacophonous, awful. Disgust curdled in the back of her throat. She swallowed against it. Not a mistake, not a mistake. He'd been saying he'd given up a chance at the Chief position for her. To be with her.

He'd given up his dream job. For her.

_Don't ever give up again. Please don't. Please. I know you-- Please, just don't._

She'd come back from her drowning trying to be bright and shiny, feeling a lot better about things than she had in a long, long time. Renewed, even. She'd known she wanted more than a whiff of Derek. She'd known she had shitty intimacy issues. She'd known there'd been things to work at, things that she sucked at. She'd known. She'd been happy, and she'd been trying, all while Derek had been convinced that if she fell in the water she'd end up dead. Again.

_You can't do this to me again._

All while Derek had been convinced he was betting on the windbag horse that wasn't going to finish the race. And he'd still given up his chance, still put his money down.

Air. She sucked in a breath, but it didn't do any good. Air, she needed air. She was panting and pacing, panting, panting. The painful brightness started to fuzz up with little black specks.

"Look, Meredith," Cristina was saying as Meredith faced a wall of hyperventilated darkness and shoved it back, barely. "Maybe we shouldn't jump to conclusions about this. It was just the secretary. What does she know? And why would Webber discuss it with her?"

"Cristina, you jumped already," Meredith said as a painful lump formed in her throat. "You've leapt across the freakin' Grand Canyon into the land of conclusion. Don't tell me not to jump with you. I… I have to go."

"Meredith, don't."

"It's fine. I'm fine. Bye."

She flipped her phone shut and turned it off. It beeped, spieled the little goodbye ring, and went silent. She ticked one way, ticked the other, just little nervous movements that didn't do much more but keep her in a holding pattern of twitching indecision. She stood there shivering for a moment, not knowing what to do, which way to go.

"Dear," Ellen called from the yard as she brushed her knees off and stood up, "Are you feeling all right?"

"Fine," Meredith said, but the word came out as a breathy wheeze. She cleared her throat, but the lump didn't go away. "Fine. Fine. I'm fine," she said. She blinked. The backs of her eyes stabbed at her.

She turned, walked back through the house, ignoring the stares, the questions, and then she was out the front door. Down the front walk, down the winding driveway, out onto the blacktop of the street. She moved like a power walker. Where? Where was she going?

Left. Left seemed good. She swerved out into the middle of the street in a wide, sweeping curve before she equalized on the edge, near where the pavement slipped off into a pile of whitish gravel and then finally grass. There weren't any sidewalks. She trotted down along the edge, daring herself to twist her ankle and stumble into the ditch. A ditch. She could twist her ankle and go flailing into a ditch.

It somehow seemed appropriate. Derek had… Derek had given up his chance at Chief. And ditch flailing seemed appropriate in response. Feelings coursed through her in a cruel jumble of senseless bits, like a rubber band ball. It bounced around, but it was essentially a bunched up twist of spaghetti until someone pulled a piece off it.

Mad. She was mad that he hadn't discussed anything with her. Mad that he'd just… thrown it all away and not told her. Well, he'd sort of told her. Sort of. In his own vague way that had told her but had completely. Not. Told her. But that didn't count. It didn't. Fucking. Count. Not for something that big.

Terrified. She was terrified that he'd… Terrified. He'd given it all up, even when he'd thought she was a walking disaster case. Hell, he might still think she was a walking disaster case. Sometimes she wasn't even sure she wasn't anymore. Like right this moment. Right this moment, things seemed pretty disastery. And they hadn't really discussed… He'd vomited. He'd vomited, and he'd cried, and they'd gone to sleep. He'd smiled at her this morning, but that didn't count either. He'd been half asleep, perhaps three quarters, well, seven eighths. And besides, he'd smiled at her in the weeks that had preceded this stupid family reunion. A stupid smile didn't mean he trusted her. They hadn't gotten into a discussion of trust yet. He'd barely wrapped his head around her drowning the night before when he'd remembered it. He'd vomited, he'd done his surgeon in a box thing, pushed the part of him that cared into a little corner of his brain while he described his memories to her with clinical precision, and then he'd vomited. Vomited. Maybe he'd been realizing what he'd given up for the walking, talking trauma case who was trying to be bright and shiny and failing dismally while she fantasized about flailing into a damned ditch.

Sick. Nauseated. Derek had. He'd. God. Why did everything she touched get turned into something ugly and twisted? Derek used to be happy. And she'd come along and now he was unhappy and vomiting…

Guilty. See sick.

And somewhere underneath it all, she was elated. Elated that she meant enough to him for him to do that. But it was such a small thing in the jumble of negativity that all it did was add a sickening buzz on top of the churning, writhing curl of ugliness gathering like some sort of dark ball of tar around her heart.

A shiny station wagon puttered up beside her and the window rolled down with a hum. "Meredith," Stewart said, still looking every bit as grumpy and hung over as he'd been when she'd seen him last. "Meredith, the speed limit along here is twenty-five. You're underperforming by a fair amount. Care to hop in?"

"I'm fine," she snapped. The world blurred in front of her. She almost ended up in the ditch like she'd planned, hoped, wanted, but she righted herself. A tear streaked down, unbidden, but she shoved it away with her index finger and forced the crying away.

He clucked his tongue. "Meredith, if this is fine, I would really hate to see you when you're upset."

She jarred to a halt and wheeled around to face him, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. The car eased to a halt. "Look," she said. "You don't have to do the thing…"

Stewart frowned. "What thing?"

"The thing where you pretend to care about me just because of Derek."

He pursed his lips and blew out a breath of frustrated air. "Meredith," he said, twisting his grip on the steering wheel, whiting up his knuckles. The motion was harsh enough that she heard the squeak, squeak, squeak of it over the hum of the motor. "Meredith, get in the car, or I will get out and drag you to the passenger seat myself. I have a headache. The act of driving is Herculean. But I will do it."

She stared at him for a moment before sighing, trudging around to the passenger side, and climbing in. She drew her seatbelt down across her front and lap. When it clicked into place, the car started moving again.

She glanced over at him, only to snort. He was still in his bathrobe. His hair hung down in dark, stringy, uncombed bits. He wasn't friendly giraffe anymore. He was unkempt, annoyed giraffe.

He didn't pay her any mind. He just continued down the road. At the end of the street, he turned around. When they hit the stop sign, he turned around again.

"What are you doing, Stu?" she asked. She sighed and put her elbow up against the window, propping her head up as he wheeled the car around again for a fourth pass on the street. If they kept this up, someone would call the cops to report prowlers. Then again, the street had only four houses on it, and they were all set way, way back from the road and spaced far apart. Maybe nobody would notice.

"Well, you seemed to be in a pacing mood," he said. He flashed her a grin that looked rather ghastly against his pasty face and the baggy circles under his eyes. "I'm just saving you the energy and clogging the atmosphere like a good, upstanding American."

She stared out the window. A ghosted outline of her silhouette stared back at her, eyes dull and glittery in the sunlight. It was like one of those melancholy, artistic portrait painting things.

She sighed as the same scenery rolled by over and over like they were on a carousel. Her eyes started to prick up in the silence as the churning tumble of emotions had a chance to gain a foothold again. She sniffled. Just once before she managed to brush it away with her hands and force it all back down again. This was Stewart. Giraffey Stewart. She barely knew him. She barely knew any of the Shepherds yet except Derek. She liked them. But she didn't know them. And she was not going to talk to this man. She was not. 

Even if he held her hostage in this stupid car and kept pressing.

Except nothing came. No pressing. No asking even. Nothing.

They just drove back and forth and back and forth, to the point where she was almost getting dizzy seeing the same four mansiony houses, over and over and over again, with the same manicured lawns, over and over and over again, with the same driveways, the same cars, the same stupid little mailboxes lined up along the street. It. She…

"Aren't you going to ask me what's wrong?" she snapped as the silence grew and grew like some sort of weedy thing, and they continued to drive up and down.

"Well, I was really only planning on doing the brotherly chauffer thing," he said. "But if you're desperate to be asked…"

"You're not my brother," she said. "I don't have any brothers. Or sisters. Or anything that could be construed as a familial type thing."

Stewart shrugged. He frowned and leaned down toward the dashboard, blinking at it. He swiped a tired hand over his face, growled slightly, and straightened back up. His head brushed the ceiling of the car. Giraffe. Hung over giraffe.

"Hmm," he said, his voice low and rumbly like a sexy radio announcer. "I think this needs gas if we're going to keep pacing. Do you mind?"

"You're not my…" Her voice trailed away.

He grinned again as he drove past the stop sign for the first time, drove past and kept on going, out into the wilderness of Connecticut. Well, not really wilderness. But there were about five people residing in the area from the looks of it.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much!" he said.

"You're not," she said. "I don't do families."

"Why not?"

"Because mine sucked."

"Come on, Meredith," he said as he drove the car through a yellow light. "We all have things to complain about with our families."

"No, you don't get it. Mine. Sucked."

"You're going to have to do a little better than that," he taunted, "Or I'll think you're just pouting."

"I am not pouting," she said. "I'm… I'm… Not. I'm."

"Pouting."

"I am not!"

"Are too."

"Am not!"

"Are too."

"Am not—" She paused to let out a frustrated growl. "God, are you five? My mom cheated. My dad left and made a whole new bright and shiny family that didn't include me. The last coherent conversation I had with my mother when she was alive involved her immense disappointment with me. Then she died. And I have a pushy fake mommy bugging me to reconcile with said dad, who can't even remember which photographs are of me, and which photographs are of his own bright and shiny kids. Okay?"

She sat there panting, panting, and panicking. She couldn't believe she'd just said all that. To Stewart. To giraffey, hung over Stewart, who cared about beer, and, well, beer, and capture the flag. She gripped the side door handle, twisting her fingers around it.

"Okay," he said.

"That's it?" she found herself exclaiming. "That's all you're going to say? Okay?"

"Meredith," Stewart said as they pulled into a gas station. Shade drenched the car as he navigated under the big awning and slid the car up against one of the pumps with only about six inches to spare. "I'm not trying to pick you apart. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm kind of a guy."

"But…"

The seat squeaked as he turned the ignition off and shifted his torso to face her. "We guys like to keep things simple. Women good. Women no make sense. Food tasty. Sports. Tools. Beer. Arrrh."

"But…" 

"Hold that thought," he said, holding up a thin, boney hand to silence her. "I have to fill up."

Her mouth fell open as he got out of the car. Just. Got. Out. Of the car. What. What was going on? She didn't… This made no sense. She didn't know what to do with it. She'd just spilled her guts to Stewart, and he'd shrugged and gotten out to pump gas. What.

She sighed. Stewart puttered around the car in his bathrobe. The car shook as he jammed the gas nozzle into the car. He hit the button on the pump for regular, and propped himself up against the side of door behind her in a lean that screamed I am leaning, I lean, therefore I am. And it was all. Wrong.

All wrong.

Tears started to burble up from the dark place she'd stuffed them. Her box was bursting open. She clawed frantically at the door handle, swallowed thickly, tried to push it back down inside herself. But it didn't work at all, and soon Stewart was going to come back in and see her crying and it just…

Why had Derek given up his dream for her? She wasn't worth it. She wasn't. She.

_Don't ever give up again. Please don't. Please. I know you-- Please, just don't._

Derek's words wrapped around her like a noose, and the fear plowed into her, unexpected, painful. The car jerked again. Stewart replaced the nozzle in the pump. The rasping rat-a-tat clicks of the gas cap screwing in were like someone tripping the rope, sending her flailing, gasping for air. She dangled.

Stewart climbed back into the car, receipt in hand. He was one of those people who had to record the mileage in a little booklet. He leaned across her, reached into the glove compartment for a pen and the checkbook thingy where he kept his records. It was like he didn't even notice or care that she was a sniffling, crying wreck.

"I get that I'm scary and damaged," she whispered as he wrote down the figures and reset the odometer. "I'm trying, though. I'm trying so hard. I want… I just want… When do I stop drowning?"

"Pardon?" he asked as he capped his pen and turned to look at her with a frown. 

She brushed her hands at her face, but tears kept swelling up to replace the old ones. "Ever since I… I thought everything could be bright and shiny. And the more I try to be okay, the worse things get. Derek gets his brain scrambled and nearly dies. And now I find out point blank that he might not have gotten his dream job because of me. Saving me really messed him up, Stu. Really. I never really got how bad it was until last night when I had to watch him-- He couldn't even tell me about it without doing the surgeon in a box thing, box it up, keep the emotions out. And then he threw up when he unboxed. I… He… I'm not worth it. I'm scary and damaged. And sometimes I think my bright and shiny is just a naïve look at all the sharp, glassy edges. You know, the ones that keep pricking everyone. I feel like a poison."

"That was a lot of words. Saving you?" Stewart pulled the car out of the gas station and back onto the main road.

"What?" she stuttered as the fear clogged her throat and left her breathless. "I. Never mind."

Derek's family didn't know she'd drowned in the damned Sound. They thought she was sort of normal, possibly. She'd liked being normal, possibly. And now… Now, she was babbling like some sort of deranged freak. To Stewart, of all people. Stewart. Who didn't seem to care. And that strangely made her want to tell him more, and more, and more. It made no sense.

She hated it.

"Look, Meredith," Stewart said with a sigh. "I won't argue that your family life has been hard. So was mine before I met Sarah. My parents split up when I was eleven. But you can't let that define you. And you make a kick ass jail guard, so, if you can convince Derek to propose to you, that'd be nice. I'd like to see you next year. Because the Shepherds? Not a bad family."

She spluttered, and her hand wrenched around the door handle so hard it started to ache. "Propose?" she asked, panting, suddenly dizzy with it. "Propose… What? What did he tell you? Did he tell you he wanted to get married to me? He can't. He. We… Married. I. That's. Big. And. It's. It's big. We don't want to get married. We… It's big."

"Meredith, relax. I just… know Derek. But he hasn't said anything. Not to me, at least."

"But. But… I'm not worth it. I'm not. I'm… Me."

"You're not poison, Meredith. I see the way Derek looks at you. I've never seen him like that over a woman. Not Addison, not anyone. That's something special. Not something worthless."

"I…" she stuttered.

Stewart's lip curled in disgust. "And now you've made me speak girl. Would you mind if we stop at the liquor store? The beer is all gone from last night, I need to cleanse myself, and Ellen only keeps wine, which is basically bubbly girl in a bottle."

Meredith thunked her head against the window. "Only if we get tequila."

"Oh, you're a tequila drinker?" he asked, his eyes widening as he purred with what almost amounted to sheer delight. "My esteem for you has risen. Now, that, Meredith. That's poison."

"Yeah," she muttered.

"All right then," he replied "Tequila for the lady."

They sat in dreary silence as he drove the car down another street and then another and another. The confusion swirled around her, made her dizzy, panty, feeling frail. Somewhere along the line, she hit overload, and she blanked. She just blanked. The car was pulling to a stop along the curb outside the store before she realized it.

"Will they let you buy alcohol in your pajamas?" she asked, her voice throaty and hoarse from the swell of emotions that churned inside her like a sickness.

He smiled and held up his billfold. "I have my credit card. I think that's the thing they care about. Besides, I have a shirt, I have shoes, well, slippers. And no pets. Why not?"

She didn't answer. He turned the ignition, and the car shuddered to a stop. The door slammed behind him after he'd slipped out of the seat, leaving her in silence. The engine ticked as it settled. She watched him enter the little liquor store in his stupid, dingy bathrobe. The door dinged as he passed over the threshold. He disappeared. And he didn't come right back out. So apparently, it was indeed possible to buy liquor in pajamas.

What was she doing here? a tiny voice asked. What. If she didn't want Derek to be head-over-heels for her enough to give up his dream job and propose and do all the knight in shining whatever things, what was she doing? 

But she did want it. She did.

Except.

It meant things. Lots of things. Things she'd decided she wanted.

But it was like… Wanting to be the Queen of England. It was a pretty nifty goal. But it was a dream. She'd always thought… Love, life, family. Those were her Queen of England. And suddenly she didn't have to fight for them at all, and… It felt wrong. All wrong. But it shouldn't feel wrong. It should feel right.

What the hell was wrong with her?

She didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve the Queen of England gig. She was a messed up trauma case. Who wanted a trauma case for a queen?

A buffet of sound shuffled past the door. Stewart passed by with a case of beer in one hand and a paper bag in the other. He popped the trunk with his keychain and put the case under the concealment flap that covered the rear of the station wagon. The car shifted as he closed the trunk with a slam. He came around front and settled into the driver's side seat again.

"Meredith," he said, reaching across the parking break to hand her a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. "I'm going to tell you a secret."

"What?"

"No one is bright and shiny," he said. "No one. If you can find some happiness in the chaos, you're ahead of a lot of people."

She stared at the bag. It crinkled in her hands. She peeked and found a rectangular bottle of Jose Cuervo waiting patiently for her. The amber liquid splished around as she shifted the bottle and bag from her left palm to her right. It was a promise in her hands. A promise that the world could be all twisty, but her head could be too slurred and dumb to care.

"Kathy seems pretty bright and shiny…" Meredith said.

"Kathy works too much," Stewart said. "She's bright and shiny until she's not. And then she's really, really not."

"Oh," Meredith said. She fingered the bottle. The cap. She could just twist it right there and upend the thing. Slug it down. She could.

"Well, if you want to take a swig," Stewart said as if he'd read her mind, "Do it now before I start the car up."

"I'll just…" she said. She sighed and stared for a long set of moments. It was so tempting. She put the bag on the floor and stuffed it under the seat, out of sight. "Keep it." She was trying. She was. Queens couldn't be drunkards. And she did want it. The queen thing.

She did.

"All right. Back home then?"

"I..." She swallowed. "Yeah. Home."

She sighed. Who would have ever thought home was in Connecticut? And she was probably the only twisty damage case to have a bottle of Jose Cuervo that wasn't empty. 


	26. Chapter 24

**Author's Note: Well, this part is really long. Really. I hope you enjoy it! This was a real marathon to write, so if you're holding back on a comment or three, I'd love to hear from you :) Thanks again for reading!**

* * *

Derek was still asleep when Meredith trudged back into the bedroom, bagged tequila bottle in hand. Her fingers clenched around the neck of the bottle, crinkling the paper, but the silence was already broken enough by the noises floating up from downstairs that it didn't sound… condemning. She put the bottle in her suitcase before she went over to the bed.

He lay sprawled diagonally across the bed on his stomach, pillow clutched over his head, buried in the sheets, barely looking like more than a lump of twisted, disturbed comforter. His back rose and fell with his long, rasping breaths, causing the blankets to move in what was the only indicator beside his pillow clutching arm that the bed was actually occupied. He didn't even stir as the mattress dipped with her weight when she sat down beside him. The small of her back rested a breath away from his hip.

She twisted to face him and peeled back the bedspread and the sheets to his waist. "Derek," she said. She slipped her palm onto the small of his back and ran it up the curve of his spine. "You have to get up. Your appointment is in a half hour."

His breathing hitched and shallowed out as it became deliberate. "It's noon already?" he grumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"Yeah," she said.

He sighed, grumbled some more, and rolled out from his sanctuary of blankets onto his back. He raised his hands to scrub at his stubbly face. His skin was pale, and the scratches all over his body had pinked up a little around the edges. Blinking blearily, he made a deep sound in his throat before he swallowed thickly and said, "I really, really overdid it yesterday, I think."

For a long set of moments, he didn't move, he just lay there in a worn out stupor, staring at the ceiling, breathing. She frowned as she watched him, running her hand idly along the skin of his arm.

Were things okay? No… Things were… not okay. He wouldn't be looking like a hung over, pasty, tired refugee if things were okay. And she couldn't help but notice that now that he was actually awake, the smile from earlier, the one when he'd said a sleepy good morning to her, was noticeably absent.

Poison, a little voice said. You're poison.

"Mom should have tweezers in one of her sewing kits," Derek said.

"What?"

The mattress moaned as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Oh, come on," he said with a frown. He shifted. She gasped as his arm slipped around her waist, his bare torso angled up against her back, and he leaned down over her shoulder to kiss the side of her neck. "It's a perfect opportunity to play doctor, and you're passing it up? We don't need to go to the ER to get the stitches removed, Mere. Not with four surgeons under one roof."

"But," she stammered, gasping as he licked the underside of her jaw. His hair brushed her cheek as he dipped lower and kindled a slow burning fire along her skin. Thoughts left her for a moment before she was able to grasp at coherency again. Panting against the slow coil of arousal, she pushed at the arm that encircled her abdomen. No, no, no. He couldn't be all mopey and then do lusty things to her, distract her. Wrong. It was wrong. He wasn't okay, and it was her fault.

"No," she said, swallowing thickly.

He stilled. "No?"

"You're sick, Derek. You need to get the follow-up done."

"Meredith," he said with a sigh that ratcheted him against her. "I'm not sick, I'm just tired."

"You're on Xanax, you're tired, you still have light sensitivity and headaches… You're sick. You need the follow-up."

"I'm not on Xanax," he said.

Her breath caught. "You stopped…"

"I stopped," he confirmed with a whisper.

"Oh," she said, though it sounded lame, even to her own ears. If he wasn't on the Xanax, that made things even worse. Because that meant he was this tired, this wrong, this… dour all on his own. No sedatives involved. Great. A knife of guilt plunged deeper.

Poison.

"Meredith, what's this about?"

"You need the follow-up, Derek. You need it."

For several moments, he didn't speak as he hovered over her shoulder, and the silence was a tense one. She wondered if he would protest more, but he didn't. He sighed.

"Okay," he said, his tone dropping into something… subdued.

He unwrapped himself from her and stood up. The bed sprang up in the absence of his weight, and she blinked as the scenery shifted upward an inch or so. He wandered over to his suitcase.

He slipped off his pajama pants and replaced them with some fresh boxers and some loose-fitting, ripped jeans, his casual, home-wear ones that were worn with time and threadbare in various luscious places. He pulled on a t-shirt and bent over to lace up his cross-trainers. She watched him shamelessly, though he changed with matter-of-fact, economized motions that told her there was no show being performed for her. He didn't try to ham it up like he sometimes did when he knew she was eyeing him.

She tried to ignore the aching lump forming in her throat, tried not to remember the night before, holding him in her arms while he finally grieved her death, tried not to wonder about the slump in his shoulders, or the way his normally lithe, bouncy pace was stilted into something melancholy. She turned and stared at the door.

Are you okay? The words lingered in the back of her throat, but they stuck there like stale caramel without the aid of milk. Perhaps she was imagining things, but she didn't think so, and she somehow knew she wouldn't like the answer to the question. Her mind wandered to the tequila sitting lonely in her suitcase, and for one sharp, painful moment, she wished that she had drunk it all, drunk it all so she could be blissfully ignorant of the not okayness that hung in the air like a thick, choking thing.

She licked her lips as his shadow moved through her peripheral vision and finally into her full view. He stood, waiting at the door, looking at her expectantly, but there wasn't anything happy or world stopping in his gaze. He just looked. At her. There was no lack of trust there, but there also wasn't much of anything else, either, just a dull, tired depression.

As she walked toward the door and pushed past him, he stopped her in the doorway and pulled her into his arms. She gasped, surprised. He leaned down over her back and just stood there, breathing, holding her tightly, almost like he was afraid she wasn't real, sort of like he had done the day of her bone harvest with Mark when she'd accused him of hovering, except there was a different quality to it. He didn't seem… desperate about it anymore. It was hard to explain. But…

He just seemed so… Sad. Weary. His nose brushed her clavicle. He kissed along the line of bone, nudging the neckline of her shirt aside as he went. His fingers clutched at her shoulders. When he reached the edge of where her shirt would permit his lips to touch, he shifted back so his chin rested on the top of her head, and he just stood there. Holding her. Rubbing his hands up and down her arms absently. And he was utterly quiet about it. No sexy taunting, no murmurs of love, no flirty, saucy interjections, just…

Quiet.

"What are you doing?" she asked as a full minute passed, and he still hadn't released her.

Not okay.

"Hugging my girlfriend," he replied, his voice rumbling into her neck as he leaned down to kiss her again. He whuffed a breath into her hair and rested against her for just a moment more. She stood still.

"Oh," she said.

He let her go and gave her a gentle prod in the small of her back. "I just need a minute," he said, and he trudged down the hall to the bathroom.

She walked toward the stairs, feeling oddly bereft. She waited on the landing for him. After about three minutes, he reappeared at the top of the steps and slowly slogged his way down to her, a distinct lack of enthusiasm painting him the color of miserable. He stared at her as he descended the steps. Their eyes met. Neither looked away. He gave her a smile then. Finally a smile. But it was just a ghost on his face.

Kathy, who was sitting in the living room in an ugly green bathrobe, not looking quite awake, tossed them her keys from the coffee table, though she didn't look nearly as enthusiastic about it as she had the day before. She looked… a little like Derek looked. Careworn. Tired. Not entirely functioning within the realm of planet Earth. Not okay. She sipped at a steaming mug of coffee, staring blankly at the space in front of her, though, unlike Derek, she flashed a real smile after a long pause and said apologetically, "Not quite awake yet. Long night."

"You don't want to grab anything to eat first?" Meredith asked as Derek started moving toward the door.

He shrugged. "I'll eat when this is over with," he said, his voice low and deep and disgruntled. Another pang slipped through her when she realized from his tone that the only reason he was up at all right now was to humor her.

They walked out onto the front stoop. Derek stopped cold, and his eyes slammed shut. "I forgot my sunglasses," he said as he veritably withered against the railing, left hand clutching at it weakly for guidance his eyes suddenly weren't providing. He breathed in thickly through his nose as he covered his eyes with his right hand.

"It's okay," Meredith said as she guided him gently back inside. Kathy looked up from her coffee but didn't comment. Meredith swallowed thickly. Why hadn't she noticed Derek had traipsed outside without the sunglasses? She should have… She shook her head. Come to think of it, Derek should have. He was the one who couldn't freaking see without them.

Not okay.

"Where did you leave them?" she asked, rubbing his arm as he leaned against the storm door and blinked tears of irritation at her.

He pinched his nose and breathed. "I don't… remember," he said after a long pause. "Weren't they on the coffee table?"

She frowned at him and looked at Kathy, who shuffled through the magazines on the table and looked back with a shrug. "Okay," Meredith said. "Wait here, I'll look."

The first place she checked was the picnic table in the back yard, because that was the last place she'd seen him put them down, but there was nothing there anymore, not even the checkered table cloth that had staved off overzealous barbecue sauce eaters from the pristine wood. Okay… She squared her shoulders, breathed, and proceeded to do a quick once-over of the house, quickly darting room to room. He hadn't been that mobile this week, so there weren't many places the sunglasses could be. She found them on the floor by his nightstand along with his clock, and she frowned. He hadn't slept roughly that she'd noticed. How had that happened? She put the clock back on his nightstand and drew up the glasses into her hands.

She trotted back downstairs with them. He stood against the storm door much like she'd left him, though he appeared a lot more rigid and a lot less wispy. His shoulders were curled with tension visible from across the room. His breaths had noticeably shortened. And he looked… unsettled.

She offered the glasses to him. He took them after a moment's pause. He stared at them, and his lip sort of... curled. The skin around his eyes wrinkled as he narrowed his gaze at them. "Thanks," he said, his tone clipped and flat, and he put the sunglasses on. His blue eyes slipped from view behind the dark lenses, and she immediately felt the handicap of no eye contact as she tried to gauge him only to fail.

They walked out to the car.

Are you okay? The words lingered again, lingered, waiting to be spoken as she settled herself behind the steering wheel, and he climbed into the passenger side seat with a heaving sigh. Are you okay? She didn't want to know the answer. Because she was positive that the answer was no at this point. And, after she'd just finished having her own semi-private internal war over what she wanted, it was dismaying to discover her dreams might have left her by the wayside after all while she waffled. Dismaying in a crushing, soul-killing way. Again, she found herself fantasizing about the unopened tequila bottle in her suitcase. A couple swigs, and none of this would hurt nearly so much…

She stared at him for a long set of moments, aching over the silence hanging between them like a black hole, sucking the life out of everything. She wanted to ask him about the chief of surgery thing, she wanted to ask him so many things, but, to him, she'd died yesterday. And she didn't feel like she could ask him anything yet. Not when his whole demeanor reeked of depression, or maybe grief, disappointment, or… She didn't know. She didn't know, and she couldn't bring herself to ask. And so the questions burbled under her skin, jumbled, jittering, waiting to explode.

Not okay.

After he clipped his seatbelt, he folded his arms over his chest and leaned his head against the window. She turned the key in the ignition and pulled out onto the street. He directed her to the hospital with quiet, terse sentences. But other than that, there was no conversation. At least the tenseness in his frame slowly melted out of him the further they traveled. Whatever had spooked him at the house had not been enough to overcome him, even without the Xanax. And that was… good. She supposed.

She wondered if it was the water that he had thought of. Or the way she had matched her scrubs. Or the CPR thing. Or something else entirely.

_For twenty minutes, I breathed for you, and those were the longest twenty minutes of my life…_

She pulled into the hospital parking lot and parked in the nearest space to the entrance that she could find. They got out of the car and walked into the trauma center. She stopped at the desk to check him in, and then chased after him to the seat he'd taken in the corner.

He sat looking distinctly uncomfortable, hunched, his arms wrapped around his stomach. He propped the side of his torso against the back of his chair and rested his head against the wall. And he hadn't taken his damned sunglasses off, even though they were inside. He shifted and sighed, and when he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, she couldn't stand it anymore, and the first volley of concerned syllables fell from her lips before she could stop them and draw them in again.

"Are you okay, Derek?" she asked, finally unwilling to watch him suffer any longer just to live in denial over the fact that she may well have mortally wounded him.

_You can't do this to me again._

He opened his mouth to respond, but the bellowed, "Derek Shepherd?" that followed cancelled any quiet utterance he might have made. She glared at the orderly that had come in with a clipboard, looking all professional in scrubs that actually matched, professional and fake-friendly. Well, probably fake. Derek stood with a sigh, and both he and Meredith were led to the triage area.

"Have a seat," the orderly said, his sneakers squeaking on the floor as he pushed the curtain back to reveal a gurney, two stools, and various instrument trays. "Someone will be in to remove your stitches shortly, and after that, the doctor will be in to see you."

"Okay," Derek replied as he pushed himself up onto the gurney.

Meredith sat on the stool next to the gurney as the orderly pulled the curtain shut, wrapping her feet around the metal undercarriage. She twist, twist, twisted her feet against the base of the chair, trying to give herself an outlet for the sudden need to move, or something.

"Derek?" she prodded.

"It's just a headache, Mere," he replied.

She frowned, trying to ignore the sudden racing streak of hopeful elation that maybe it wasn't her, wasn't her, wasn't her, because it must be more than just a headache if it was keeping his sunglasses on while he was indoors, if it was making him walk around like the emotion had just been sucked out of him. And if it was more than just a headache, that still left room for there to be another problem, a problem with her at the root. A pang of worry hit her. If there was anything about Derek she'd learned this week, it was that he was ridiculously reticent about admitting when he wasn't well. It had taken a freaking panic attack for him to concede that something might have been wrong on Tuesday.

"Just a headache?" she prodded, emboldened. She reached up and touched the edges of his sunglasses, petting them with her fingers. He sucked in a breath, but he didn't stop her as she pushed them back into his hair. He shut his eyes and grunted. She brushed her palm along the plane of his cheek. He leaned into it. Please, please just don't let this all be because of me, she thought as his warm skin shifted against her palm.

"I woke up with it," he said. "The light made it worse."

"Oh," she said.

"I couldn't remember where I'd put them. My sunglasses. I just…" His voice trailed away and he gave a lackadaisical shrug that made her heart pang. "Blanked."

"Derek, that's a common symptom, too."

"I know," he said. He drew his knees up onto the bed and rested his face against them, blocking out the harsh fluorescent light of the trauma ward. The paper on the gurney crinkled as he shifted. "It doesn't mean I have to like it," he said into the crook between his knees.

"Was that what set you off earlier? Forgetting?"

He frowned as he looked up. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, but at least he wasn't squinting anymore, didn't appear pained now that he'd adjusted. "Set me off?"

"I saw you. You were nervous."

"Yet another lovely byproduct, apparently," he replied, his lip curling with disgust. "I didn't want to come here."

"Why not?" she asked.

"They're just going to tell me what I already know."

"Which is?"

"That I've picked up PCS, the symptoms will most likely resolve spontaneously, but that it might take days, months, or even a year. And until then, I'm stuck with… this."

"Derek Shepherd?" a deep, gruff voice called. A young man in dark red scrubs appeared in the space the curtains had been.

Derek ran his hands through his hair in an agitated, sweeping gesture. "Yeah."

"Hello, I'm Casey," the man said with a smile. "Will you lie back?" he asked as he pulled out a tray of stainless steel instruments and sat down on the circular, wheeled stool opposite to Meredith. "I just need to take the stitches out."

Derek sighed and lay back against the gurney after handing Meredith his sunglasses. He closed his eyes and lay quietly while Casey sterilized the sutures and went to work with a small pair of scissors and some forceps. "This might tug a little," Casey said as he leaned over Derek, "But it shouldn't hurt."

It was over quickly. Casey leaned back. "There," he said as he plopped the forceps back down onto the tray. "All done."

"Can you give him some ibuprofen or something?" Meredith asked. "He has a headache, and he's too macho to ask for it himself."

"One of those, eh?" Casey said with a grin that pulled back to reveal a set of white, perfect teeth. "Sure, I'll send some in with the doctor." He pulled the curtain closed behind him as he left, instrument tray clinking as he carried it off to be sterilized.

Derek didn't look happy, but he didn't complain that she'd asked for the painkillers either, which made her bite her lip. She hated seeing him like this. She leaned over him and ran her hands through his hair in slow, repetitive motions meant to soothe. His eyelids drooped, and he sighed.

Not okay, but...

At the same time, she felt a twist of relief. Perhaps he really wasn't upset with her. Perhaps it was all just the headache. Just… Everything else that was cropping up to be his enemy for the day. He was a vibrant, healthy man who was used to being able to fix things, and this wasn't really fixable. It was the sort of thing that was bound to drag him down a little. Especially after yesterday. He'd had an emotionally wrought day, he'd played a physically demanding game, he'd roughhoused. And now everything had caught up with him, and he was paying for it. The fact that his body was reprimanding him so severely had to sting…

Except, she was sure there was something else. Something else, parasitic and unhealthy, behind his strange depression. A headache would explain the pained, tired look, the seeming lack of interest in everything around him. But it wouldn't explain why he'd clung to her in the doorway of their bedroom, clung silently, almost mournfully.

A harsh wall of sound hit her as a blond, shaggy, cherubic-looking doctor she didn't recognize pulled the curtains back. He handed Derek some ibuprofen to take as he sat down on the stool Casey had vacated and began to check Derek's vitals. He introduced himself as Dr. Masden before running through a quick barrage of cognitive tests that basically revealed Derek was perfectly fine save for a little trouble with concentration. Just as Derek had suspected, the visit proved basically useless, because all Dr. Masden said after listening to Derek's list of symptoms and checking him over was essentially that it was probably PCS, everything seemed normal at this point, and that they should seek a follow up appointment with a neurological specialist when they got home to check for any really late showing problems like chronic bleeds.

Derek sighed as Dr. Masden departed. "You playing doctor would have been much more fun," he said. He gifted her with a sly grin, a genuine one that reached the skin around his eyes, and then he winked at her in a way that made her breath stop at the mere suggestiveness of it. Her heart fluttered in her chest. At least the painkillers seemed to be working. His eyes weren't so… pinched. His demeanor seemed less… crushed.

"Sorry," Meredith replied with a smile. "I didn't mean to drag you here. It seems silly now. I forget you kind of know how to diagnose this stuff. I was just…" Worried. Afraid. Guilty. The words halted on her tongue.

"What?" Derek asked as he eased himself off the gurney and onto his feet. He held on for a moment before releasing his hands, but he looked… better. Just better.

She made a mental note to force feed him ibuprofen right away if he ever got all slouchy again like he had been. She just wasn't used to diagnosing him yet as far as pain went. He'd never been sick before, never been injured… It made sense that he internalized his physical discomfort just like he did with everything else. And it was so like a… like a stupid, arrogant, surgeon man for him to just… ignore it rather than take something for it.

She handed him his sunglasses, and he hooked them on the front pocket of his jeans.

"You're kind of infuriating, Dr. Shepherd," she said as they headed back out into the waiting room at a relaxed pace.

He grinned at her. "Oh, am I, Dr. Grey?"

"If you have a damned headache that's bad enough for you to act like, well, like a walking wound or something, you should—"

"I didn't think it was that bad, Mere."

"Yeah, well, you're dumb," she said, clenching her fists. "Stupidly so. You're a stupid, stupid man. Stupid doctor, surgeon, whatever."

He frowned. "Sorry."

"You should be. Next time I have cramps, you know what I'm going to do?"

"Um," he stuttered, a hot, red blush flaring across his face. "Do I want to know?"

"Nothing. I'm going to do nothing, and we'll see how you like it."

He snorted. "Why, you little martyr, you. Look, Mere, I really didn't realize how bad it was until it was gone. I just… Sorry."

"Stupid," she muttered.

He wheeled around to face her, propping his arms on her shoulders and forcing her to a skidding halt. She stepped up into him as she stopped herself, and found her nose squarely against his chest. She growled as he chuckled, and the sound of it rumbled against her. He'd done that on purpose… "You love me, though," he said.

"I do," she said, finally letting herself relax against him. Not her. Something might be wrong, but he wasn't upset with her, she was fairly certain about that now. He was just a moron. That was something she could live with. "I really, really do," she added with a whisper. He rubbed her back with the flat of his palm and kissed the top of her head.

"I love you, too," he said.

She stood in his arms for a long two minutes before she realized he was doing it again. Just standing, hugging her, strangely silent, just… breathing her in. He slouched over her shoulder, and his chin rested lightly on the back of her shoulder as he stood there. Breathing. Just breathing. His hand ran absently up and down her spine, and it was like he was off somewhere else. She let him take his time.

When he finally pulled back from her, he smiled, gorgeous, dreamy, and she almost wondered if she'd imagined the rush of melancholy. But... "Let's stop in the gift shop," he said abruptly, peeling her from her wayward musing. He turned, grabbed her hand, and pulled on it as he plunged forward down the hall without waiting to see her reaction. She saw a sign with an arrow that said "Gift Shop" in simple, printed, blue letters fly past, which at least made his sudden idea, sudden enthusiasm seem a little less random.

"Why?" she asked as he guided her through the hall, past one turn, past another. "I don't think they make 'sorry, I'm stupid' gifts. Do they?"

He laughed. "That's not what I want to get," he said. "They have a good novelty scrub cap selection. It's where I got the one I used to wear at Mount Sinai, you know, before I came to Seattle."

They came to a brief halt and she saw the store. It wasn't very impressive, perhaps the size of a small pharmacy or something. Four aisles lined the center floor area, and everything was very… cramped. Various apparel lined the walls, all labeled with the hospital logo.

"You want a souvenir scrub cap?" she asked as he plowed to the back of the gift store, but he didn't answer. She glanced around, following him at a slower pace. The gift shop was primarily a place for waiting people to buy stuffed animals and cards and flowers for their loved ones, but it had a small section for doctors to buy things from in the back, apparently. There were about twenty-five different choices of scrub caps on the rack in the last row, starting with simple ones that had the hospital logo painted on the fabric. She hoped he didn't want a scrub cap that commemorated the hospital he'd nearly died at. That was just… Morbid. Or something. He fingered through the selection, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

"Do they make 'I cracked my skull, and all I have to show for it is this lousy scrub cap' scrub caps? I like your ferryboat scrub cap. You should keep that one. It's got ferries. You like ferries," she babbled.

"No, Meredith, that's not…" he muttered, but his voice fell away when he stopped on a simple white scrub cap with small sheaves of long, purple flowers splayed across it in a scattered, random array.

"I think that's definitely not you," Meredith said, making a face. It was a beautiful scrub cap, though. Seattle Grace's shop didn't have any good ones. She'd checked.

He grinned as he pulled it off the rack. The plastic sleeve crinkled. "No, Mere, it's for you."

"What?" She blinked as something plunged out from underneath her.

"Lavender," he said, holding it up to her face and giving an approving nod. "Every good surgeon needs her own scrub cap, Meredith. And, in a few weeks, you won't be an intern anymore."

He wandered off with the scrub cap in tow, leaving her standing there gaping as he paid for it at the counter with his credit card. The smiling but crusty old clerk rang it up for him, chatting away about the weather and whatever else came to her mind. She rattled off an emphysemic cough every other word, but Derek conversed with her in his usual, charming way. Meredith walked in a daze up to the space behind him and stood there patiently, waiting for him to finish. Her eyes started to prick up.

He turned around and smiled at her as the clerk handed back his credit card, and he put it back in his billfold. He gave her the bag as he walked past her, and she followed, numb. The bag crinkled as she scrunched the handle in her hands. He turned around when they were back out in the hallway.

She dropped her gaze to the bag in her hands. He'd just… given her a scrub cap. A really, really pretty one. Thoughts came to her slowly at first, and she felt dumb. He'd. Bought her… Bought her a gift. He bought her dinner, he bought her movie tickets, he bought her groceries from time to time, he bought her all sorts of things, but… But. They'd never really done the gift thing before. Never really… It was just something that'd they'd never really… done. They'd obviously missed the boat on Christmas. They hadn't had an anniversary yet. The gaps in their relationship had torn away birthdays from the mix. When else would there be presents, really? When…

She swallowed, staring at her bundle.

He'd bought her a scrub cap. Just a stupid piece of fabric with some really pretty flowers on it. But it was… She'd put him through hell, and he'd bought her a gift for it. And suddenly everything she thought she'd managed to decide on, everything she thought she'd managed to box up, came bursting out of her like a riptide, or some sort of minor tsunami. She started to cry. Hysterically.

Her cheeks flushed with the heat of embarrassment. She could feel the awful blush snaking down across her cheeks, creeping down the skin of her neck, burning, hot, despite the streaming, ugly tears that stung her. Warm arms and shushing noises enveloped her. He held her without asking why. She pulled tents of his shirt into the gaps between her fingers, and she just. Sobbed. Clutched. Behaved like some freakish, weak little girl. A damage case.

He guided her to a bench that ran along the side of the hall, and he sat down with her while she cried herself out. Various people walked back and forth in the hall, but they didn't seem to pay her ridiculous little scene any mind. It was a hospital. People cried.

She cried. Why did she have to cry? Derek rocked her in his lap. He was perfect. And it only made everything worse.

"Okay, that wasn't quite the reaction I was expecting," he said into her hair as he nuzzled the skin of her neck. "Meredith… Meredith…" he murmured her name with quiet, unadulterated reverence, and the whisper of it laved her skin like a kiss. That only made it worse. Everything was making it worse, even though it was all perfect, perfect, perfect.

Silly, silly girl. Blowing her coronation…

"I didn't drink any…" she said, practically moaning. She hadn't intended to tell him about Stewart, hadn't intended to ever speak of her momentary, ballistic freak-out ever again, and yet now, all she could think about was making sure he knew.

"What?" he said, in a voice that plainly said in woeful tones, what did I do?

"Stewart took me to the liquor store and bought me some tequila, but I didn't drink it Derek. I'm… I didn't drink it," she said into the stubbly skin on his throat. It prickled, but she just didn't care. He was warm, and there, and perfect. And it was…

Perfect.

She sniffled, wiping at her face, trying to stave off the ugly trails of upset running down her cheeks. It was finally starting to subside. When she pulled back, she fell into the thrall of his concerned gaze. A confused sort of pain hazed his blue eyes. Pain for her, but also some for him. He ran his fingers through her hair, looking at her like she'd died and he'd been the one to kill her.

She bit her lip, regretting her outburst. She hadn't meant to make him feel guilty… She hadn't meant… Well, she wasn't sure what she'd meant.

Are you okay? The words sat there, slowly morphing into… Am I okay?

She was fairly certain the answer to both was no.

Are you, are you, am I, am I…

"Mere?" he prodded when she didn't continue.

"I'm trying so hard to be okay. But I'm not okay, Derek. And you're not okay. Nothing is okay," she said. She eyed the bag containing the little lavender-covered scrub cap. It sat by his hip, forgotten. "And I don't deserve a crown. I… I'm sorry."

He sighed and put his hands against her temples, forcing her to look away from the gift, forcing her to look at him, look into his eyes. "Meredith, I'm fine," he said, firm, resolute, and misunderstanding her entirely. "Look at me. Look. I'm fine. I have PCS. It will go away. But I'm here."

She shook her head. "You're not fine. You threw up last night. When you remembered. And you keep hugging me like you'll never see me again or something."

He stilled his soothing motions, stilled and swallowed, and she knew she'd gotten under the skin like the plunge of a jagged knife. She scooted off his lap to slouch next to him, leaning up against his torso while he tried to gather himself into something coherent. She clutched his shoulders, aching for him as he closed his eyes and fought with whatever mental horrors she'd dredged up from the depths.

"Meredith," he began slowly. His breaths came slow and even, but in a forced sort of way. "You dying… Finding you in the water… Waiting for you… After… Those were some of the scariest moments in my life. Ever. I'm sorry you had to see that I didn't deal so well with it, but…" His voice trailed away. He stared off into space for a moment before giving himself a visible shake. He turned to look back at her, eyes serious and unblinking.

"I did that to you. I did that. And you gave up being Chief anyway," she said.

He blanched. "Hold on. What?"

"I heard. I heard about you getting shut out of Chief because you're with me. Why did you do that, Derek? Why? You didn't even talk to me…"

He slouched further in defeat. "What was there to talk about, Meredith?"

"You could have told me. You could have… I don't deserve it, Derek. I don't deserve all the concessions. I… You threw away your dreams for me, and I don't deserve it. I died, Derek. You're going down with a sinking ship, and I don't… I don't think you should do that for me."

"You're not a sinking ship, Meredith."

"You didn't trust me," she said. "For a month I had to watch you watch me like I was going to break."

He sucked in a breath as though she'd stabbed him, and a cloud of dark, ugly guilt ran over his features like a rushing storm. "Meredith, you dying… It scared me out of my mind. I… I was a wreck. I—"

"Derek…"

He pushed a hand absently in her direction, quieting her. He stared off into space. His eyes watered. He blinked, blinked, blinked, sniffled, wiped his face with his hands. "No, no…" he said, decisively shushing any further interruption. "I was so afraid I'd wake up one night and you wouldn't be breathing next to me. I used to lie there beside you and listen, just listen, because I was so afraid that if I stopped listening, you'd stop breathing."

She swallowed as new tears pricked up against her eyes. She hadn't realized he'd been so upset… She hadn't noticed at all. Before. He'd smiled at her when she'd woken up, he'd spooned her, giving her comfort throughout the night, and she'd thought everything was okay for a while, until he'd come home that night after his talk with the Chief about his job, dark and distraught. She'd thought he was okay, that everything was okay, that she was alive, and all was well. But it hadn't been. And, after this week, after this awful, yet strangely wonderful week, she was realizing how deeply the wound ran.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Stop it, Meredith," Derek snapped. "Stop apologizing. This week… I was wrong, Meredith. You're one of the strongest people I know. You breathed for yourself. You breathed for me. All week, you breathed for the both of us."

He wrung his hands together absently as he stared into space. His face was wet, though she hadn't noticed when the tears had fallen. "Meredith," he said. "I'm the one who's sorry."

"We both seem to be apologizing a lot, this week," Meredith replied.

He sniffed, rubbed his face, and looked at her with an unblinking, pained gaze. "We're a pair of guilt-mongers is what we are."

He was right. She stared at him, stared deep into the well of guilt pooled in his eyes, and she knew it. And something sort of snapped into place. She grasped at it. One of them was going to have to let go for them to get anywhere. Both of them, preferably. But somebody had to start it.

"So, what about the hugging?" she asked.

"Meredith, I'm just… Sad. Sad and twisted up with… This week has been… I'm just tired. That's all."

"Twisted up with what?"

"I just…" He sighed, and his brow furrowed with a deep, self-hating frustration. "I don't like the person I've been the last year, Meredith. I don't like him at all. I don't like what I did to you. I don't like what I did to Addison. I… I'm trying to… I'm just trying to work through that and move on. I can't… explain it."

She swallowed. One of them was going to have to let go, and he was trying, trying hard. And what was she doing? She was wallowing in tequila fantasies, crying over a heartfelt gift, twisting herself into knots because she'd…

"And sad?" she asked, unable to stop herself from digging her own serrated emotional knives deeper into her already gushing wounds.

"You died, Mere," he said. "Did you expect me to dance a jig? I just need a little time. I never really… gave myself the time to… I just pushed it down before, and it gnarled up into something bad, and I…"

Again, his voice fell away into silence. She leaned against his shoulder. A mess. He was such a mess. And she still just couldn't wrap her mind around the fact that he'd tossed his dream job away. For her.

"Why did you do it?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Give up Chief?"

The minutest of shrugs sluiced off his shoulders. "Dreams can change. I love you, and I want you. And it was just a job."

She swallowed, blinking back a fresh well of tears. "I don't deserve it." Jab, jab, jab. The wounds gaped as her knives dug deeper.

"No, you don't deserve me, Mere," Derek replied. "You deserve something better. I'm the one reaching for the stars here, not you."

"How can you say that?" she whispered.

His lips quirked into an easy smile that made him look so young, so naïve, so hopelessly fallen for her that it would have made the noose of her guilt tighten, were it not for the swell of other lighter fluttery things that yanked her breath away from her. He slew her with it, that look, and she was a melted pile gazing back at him.

"Because it's true," he said, as though it were the simplest thing to grasp in the world. "You're beautiful to me, Mere."

"I look like crap right now," she said, sniffling as she wiped the backs of her palms against her cheeks.

"You look like a queen," he said, as if he'd reached into her brain and pulled out the worry that sat most shallow, just underneath the surface of her spoken words. A queen. This was her chance to take what she wanted. All she had to do was push the rest away. Get rid of the guilt. He brushed her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "But I didn't mean your face," he said, smiling.

Her breath fell away for a moment.

"You're really okay?" she managed after a pause.

"I'm really okay, Mere."

"On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?"

He frowned and thought about it for a moment, really considered. He shrugged. "Six or so. I just need some time, Mere."

She stared at him for a moment, stared, on the brink. He really did seem... Better. Better than he had in the weeks following her accident, when she hadn't even realized he wasn't okay. He was trying. Trying to let it go. What was she doing?

She ran her fingers along the planes of his face, curled her fingers in his hair, staring.

What was she doing?

He was a man who was awful at controlling his own inward twist of darker feelings, who couldn't figure out when he hurt enough to justify an ibuprofen, who, when angered, was quick to snap and growl and snarl in a way that far outweighed the offense. He was bound by rules that often didn't make sense to her. He tried to save people he couldn't save, tried to fix things he couldn't fix, tried to be McDreamy when he had a snowball's chance in hell of pulling it off. He was egotistical, prone to denial, jealousy, and passive aggressive nastiness, and he had the classic surgeon's god complex. His stubble sucked, he had morning breath…

But, to her, he was perfect.

He was perfect, and she wanted it. No other queens of England need apply.

Screw what she deserved, or what the universe may or may not owe. She wanted. There was a time to push the guilt away. A time to look at all your baggage, say enough, and leave it on the conveyor belt. And this was it.

She was pushing the guilt away.

That's what she was doing.

She snaked her fingers through his hair and pulled him toward her. "How about now?" she mumbled into his mouth as she kissed him, but the words fell into the crush between them and were demolished. He breathed sharply through his nose, and she pushed up against him, clutching desperately at his shirt as she caressed the soft line of his lower lip with her own. She drank him down, drank down the musky, faint bit of just… male that lingered on his skin. His stubble scraped at her skin, but it was just a reminder that she was alive, and breathing, and it felt damned good. His hand roamed along the curve of her spine.

"There was a scale?" he said between pants when she finally pulled back.

She smiled at his flushed, twinkly-eyed stupor, leaning absently against him to reach for the forgotten bag beside his hip. She snuck her hand through the gap at the top, clutched at the little plastic baggie that contained the scrub cap, and yanked back, leaving the larger bag behind. The plastic sleeve crinkled as she tore at it, freeing the little cap from its sterile container.

"What are you doing?" he asked as she flipped the fabric back over her head and pulled the straps back underneath her ponytail. She tucked her hair up underneath it and folded everything down.

She laughed. "Trying out my crown. What do you think?"

She shifted her head from side to side to give him a better view.

He nodded in approval. "It works for you. Very chic."

She stood up for a moment, swung her leg over the bench, and turned, sitting back down on his lap. He shifted, and his arms slipped behind her back to prop her up against him. "Derek…" she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Why does the Chief not want to consider you because of me?"

"Well…" Derek said, shrugging. "He thinks I can't do it all. He thinks I can't be Chief and still… be there. For you."

"Wait a minute. He's barring you from being Chief because he wants you to be a good boyfriend?"

Derek's face flushed. "That's… Pretty much the gist of it."

"That's ridiculous, Derek. You can't… He's not my father. He has no right. Even my father has no right. And you… You… You just let him?"

"What was I supposed to say to him? I have a history of being absent, Meredith, and that was well before I was up for Chief."

"You have a history of being absent with Addison, Derek. I'm not Addison," she said. "Actually, I often can't seem to shove you away with a stick. You can't make excuses for him. You can't. You should file a complaint with HR."

Derek sighed. "I'm not going to file a complaint, Mere. It's not worth it," he said. A mischievous smile quickly ripped the frown away. "And when have you tried to shove me away with a stick?"

"Pretty much the entire first few weeks I knew you. Prom sex. Um, taking it slow the second time around, yet somehow you ended up naked in my bathtub. Need I say more? I'm pretty sure I could think of something."

He grinned wickedly at her, wrapped his arms under her thighs and stood. "Okay, the bathtub at the very least, there was no stick shaking. I'll give you prom and my ego-crushed phase."

"Put me down," she said with a giggle, but he didn't, and the lascivious look that crept across his face sent shivers down her spine. "What are you doing?" she asked, though she had a fairly good idea exactly what he was doing, and it made her start to thrum with arousal at just the thought. But where? Where would they?

He grinned. "Reverting to my stick-dodging type." He wandered into one of the side hallways. She bucked a little in his grasp playfully, but all he did was grip her more tightly and shush her with a quick kiss.

"Derek, where the heck are you going?" she tried again as he turned another corner, navigating like he knew exactly where he was going. He carried her like she weighed nothing. And, as determined as he suddenly seemed, she probably did feel like nothing in his arms.

He just laughed, and suddenly, he was shoving the both of them through a door into darkness. He bumped the door shut behind him with his hip, and as her eyes adjusted, over his shoulder she saw two small cots lining the side of the windowless room. She didn't have more than a moment to absorb the scenery. The bolt lock clicked shut when he shifted and twisted it with his fingers. Then he pushed her flat against the door and kissed her, finally allowing her legs to fall from his grip. For a moment, all she could think was… he's kissing, kissing me. And her legs refused to support her. She slipped an inch, but he wrapped his arms around her, the falling stopped, and for a brief, nonsensical moment, she lived in the bliss.

When he pulled away from her for a moment, giving her time to have an actual thought that was part of an actual thought process, she hissed. "Derek, we can't do this here!"

He leaned down and ravished his way down her neck. "Why not?" he asked.

She blinked, trying to think, think thoughts. Where had they… Oooh. He licked her skin, sucked, and she couldn't help but tilt her head to give him more room to work with… Thoughts. What was? "We don't even work here," she said, gasping, trying to keep her mind in one piece, but failing, failing utterly. He was a freakin' god at the whole kissing thing. And…

Oooh. She moaned.

"I was on their payroll for consults at one point," he said, his voice rumbling into the underside of her chin as he dipped under and kissed her there, too, leaving no spot of her exposed skin untouched. "That counts."

"That…" She blinked, thunked her head back against the door, sighing as he drew another wave of bliss through her like thread through a needle. Thoughts. She had… "That does not count!"

"It does too count!"

"We can't, Derek," she said, even as her usually very negative inner voice was whining, we can, we can, we so, so can.

"Well, where else do you suggest?" he asked. "Kathy's Mercedes? I'm sure she'd love that."

"You can't even make it home?" she said, her exasperation draining away into a gasp as he pushed his hand up underneath her shirt and slid his palm along her skin. "You're like a teenager, I swear." Her fingers curled as he licked her lips, leaving a salty, evaporating trail of chill and heat that mixed and made her practically drunk on it. Her eyelids drooped with lusty desire. They really shouldn't. Do this. Here. But. But. But…

"I am not," he said, kissing her. "Ever." He kissed her again. "Doing another sex lecture." He kissed her one last time, deep, roaming, slick. "And I can't guarantee you'll be quiet."

"Can't guarantee I'll be quiet? What about you, Mr. Growly?"

"I know I won't be quiet," he said. He wrapped his arms around her and started shuffling backward, pulling her away from the door toward the waiting beds. It did seem kind of silly to have an on-call room so easily accessible and so empty… It was like the hospital was asking for it. Lusty doctors, have your hot, spontaneous, quickie sex here, right here, it seemed to be saying. And… And…

He kissed her again, and the last bit of protest bled out of her.

"This is so many levels of wrong," she said, but she pushed him down onto the bed anyway.

He laughed and pulled her down on top of him. "You'll have sex on a plane, but not in an on-call room?"

"I didn't say I wasn't going to have sex in an on-call room," she said, pushing up onto her knees and shifting so she straddled him at the waist.

"Oh?"

"Wrong is feeling kind of right, right now," she replied with a sly grin. "Besides, there's always tip number five."

He raised an eyebrow. "Why did you skip one and two?"

"I already use them," she said. She pulled her shirt off. Her bra went next.

"You do?"

"Two. Visual cues, to heighten your experience," she whispered as she leaned down, staying her lips millimeters from his own. "Like this," she purred. She kissed him, and then curled her body back in a slow arc. She splayed her palms against her lower abdomen, hooking her fingers briefly under the side straps of her panties before she drew her hands up slowly. She cupped her breasts, pushing them together into a mound of cleavage. "Or this," she added as she swept her hands back to her scrub cap, pulled it off, stroked her finger down against the band that held her ponytail in one piece, clawed it out, and let her hair fall loose in a slow tumble worthy of a shampoo commercial.

"Mere…" he whispered, and she could tell he was already her prisoner.

"As you can see, it was sort of a no-brainer. So was tip number one."

"One?"

"Foreplay…" she said. "Is essential." She leaned down, hooked his shirt with her fingers and slid back. He arced, helping her get rid of it in a smooth, practiced movement. She ran the back of her nail in a circle around his navel before trailing up to his pectorals. Leaning down like a swan plucking at the water with its beak, she licked the skin around his left nipple. A breath jerked through him.

"There seems to be a big gap in skill levels between the first two tips and the next two," he murmured.

"I think it all depends on what you do with the information," she said as she scooted back, wriggling intentionally against his groin as she slipped down to his thighs. She popped the first button of his jeans open. She loved that he loved button flies. They were so fun for… play. She twisted her finger under the second button, but didn't pop it open, just let him writhe for a moment.

Her pants were the simple zip kind with one button. When he gathered his senses from the scattered piles caused by her teasing, he managed to have said pants pooled around her knees in less than a breath. Her panties came down with a similar quickness. She leaned forward and let him draw them down until she could kick them off.

His pants were still on button two. She popped the second one, cupping him through his jeans. "Mere," he moaned as he swung his body up, trying to meet her, but he was trapped, and the word became a mewl of frustration. She leaned down flat against him and licked the underside of his chin before coming down on his lips in a desperate, heady kiss. He bucked into her as she swept her tongue down into him. "Mere," he moaned again, the word lost in his mouth, lost in her mouth, rumbling against the back of her throat in a mindless twist of sound. She popped button three.

His hands swept down over her back, down past her hips, and then underneath, roaming slowly, carefully from her inner thighs to her chest. He was cheating. He wasn't supposed to be—

She fell against him when he slipped a finger down between her thighs. She panted. "Derek, no fair," she whined, but he took her breath away again with a series of quick, curling motions that made her feel like she was his harp to pluck and… Spots flared. Caress and… A sharp fire laced through her, suddenly the world was tilting, and he was looking down at her, panting, raining kisses down on her in a torrent. Play. Strum. Whatever. Whatever he wanted.

She finally let him have buttons four and five. She slipped his jeans and boxers down, and they were both in an even state of undress. He was hard. He was ready. She pulled him down against her, not inside her, but on top, and pinned him. The gasp she tore from his lips was exquisite. She slipped her hands between and stroked him up the underside. She purred as his whole body jerked, and he moaned, twisting into her hand.

He started to rock against her, thrusting against her skin. He kissed her, kissed her, kissed her, and somewhere in the middle, slipped his finger down again, sent in the fireworks to make her forget about trying to hold him so close to where he desperately wanted to be, but so far. A streak of sensation sent her curling backward into the mattress. Her arms fell away from him as she forgot herself for just a moment, but it was all he needed. He laughed, low and throaty and seductive, and as she came down from her backward arc, he pushed inside her with a light grunt.

For a moment, all he did was hover, hover, resting, inside her to the hilt. She breathed, staring at him through a hooded gaze. He was inside her, thick, and hard, and hers, and it felt so right. She reached up and twisted her fingers through his hair, holding him there, staring, inches from her face. His soft, hot breaths laved her skin. His blue eyes sparkled in the darkness. Hers.

And she was the Queen of England.

He took a deep, deep breath, like he was preparing himself for… something. And in the sudden stillness, the calm before the storm, she wondered if this was necessarily a good idea if he was already so tired and worn from yesterday. For a moment, she did wonder, concerned, especially when he was taking so long to start, but then he ripped the thought away from her as he began to work his magic.

He dug his knees into the bed and shifted so he was almost kneeling, and then he swept under her thighs with his hands and pushed until she was curling back over herself. He grunted, hooking his arms around her legs. The backs of her knees fell against his shoulders, and each long, solid thrust made it look like he was trying to crawl up the backs of her legs to her feet. Each thrust, slow, deliberate, rough, scraped along the front wall of her. Each one nearly took her breath away, sent a kaleidoscope of spots in front of her vision, sparking, flaring, brilliant.

"Derek," she said, panting, trying to remember if he'd ever tried this before. She didn't think he had, but then again, coherency? Not really happening right then. "Holy crap, Derek."

She clawed at his back as he filled her again, only to leave her, and fill her and leave her, and her thoughts were just. Gone. The friction building in her lower body felt like a slow-burn of frenzy, simmering, waiting. Every time he came back to her, she felt closer, closer, closer to the peak, inch by agonizing, luscious, thrilling inch. His pelvic bone grinding against her skin was his very own method of exquisite torture for her, and he slowly helped her climb from within and from without.

"So," he said, panting just as hard as she was. "I found your Cosmo… Educational."

"You what?" she gasped. "When?"

He didn't answer her. "This one was… new," he managed between ragged, tortured panting. "Though, you know… I was looking… at the pictures… Torrid Table-Top… Can we try… that one when we… get home? Home, home, not here… I'm not having sex… on my mother's table… That's a bit much… Even for me."

"You read my Cosmo?" she said, not quite with the situation as he entered her and sent the first, hinting shiver of release curling up her spine. Her voice fell away into a warbling, unhindered moan. Her eyes rolled back, her body started tensing, out of control. Her breathing wouldn't slow for any thought in the world.

He laughed as he pulled out and jammed up into her again. Deep, throaty grunts held each of his breaths in a vocalized vice. He was working, really working. His fingers gripped her thighs. Tight. "I didn't read the tips. I figured you'd want to surprise me."

"Derek," she moaned. "I'm… Oh." Her voice utterly left her.

The peak that had been threatening, it was there. He dipped out and in one more time, and she went flailing, falling, gasping. "Derek," she managed. "Crap, Derek. Crap, crap, crap." The throb of it rolled through her like a wave, and the aftershocks rolled through in quick echoes of the same, leaving her shuddering, little panting moans falling from her lips well after the ability to form real syllables left her. She shivered. Her brain stopped working. Sated. She was. Sated. And it was…

Perfect.

Derek pushed into her and let himself finish with a growl. He twitched inside of her, collapsing briefly against the backs of her quads as if they were the only things holding him up. They probably were. He pulled out of her and collapsed beside her as she let her legs fall to the mattress, unable to keep them up without his support. He was stuck in his own stupor, grinning, love-drunk, relaxed, sated.

He flopped his head down on her shoulder, breathing into her neck, but the rest of him, the rest of him wasn't moving one bit. Sort of like her. Just limp. Limp, and utterly done. There was going to be no second round today. A second round would probably kill them both.

The world dimmed. She didn't know how long she dozed, didn't know how long she let herself fall asleep for. It had been a long time since sex had knocked her out like that. She was doing the lazy after sex thing. She was. But she felt so freakin' good, she just didn't care.

She didn't know how long it had been, but when she came back to herself, she twitched, turned, and found him staring at her, his eyes hooded with a dark, deep, desirous thing. Love. Propped on his side, he breathed softly as he stroked his thumb in small movements against her shoulder. His skin was hot against her own, soaked with the frenzy of sex and lust and rushing blood. His Adam's apple bobbled down his throat as he swallowed once, twice. She rolled into his embrace and rested against him, staring lazily, not caring that they were in an on-call room of a strange hospital where they didn't work, not caring that there was a world outside the door, and from the look in his eyes, he didn't care either.

From the look in his eyes, there wasn't a world outside her body, let alone outside the door.

He lay there, silent, enthralled, and still. They rested for a long time, breathing. The moments brought clarity back to her in a slow, peaceful, barely-noticed crawl, until she was lying there not as an act of resting, but rather as an act of desire.

She wanted to stay there forever in his sanctuary, lounging against the rise and fall of his chest. His eyes glittered in the darkness, and the petting motion of his fingers on her shoulders slowed. He inhaled and let it go with a soft, whuffing sound that buffeted her cheek. She turned, faced him nose to nose, just a sliver of space between the end of her and the beginning of him. He inhaled once more, swallowed.

And then he spoke.

"Marry me," he whispered, and her world froze in that moment.


	27. Chapter 25

Crap, he thought, barely a second after the words had left his lips. He lay there, unable to move, stuck in the after haze of some of the most amazing sex he could recall from recent history, tips three and four notwithstanding. He lay there, naked, next to the most beautiful woman he'd ever met, both inside and out. He lay there, and his brain just couldn't function. He'd known he'd wanted to propose. He'd known it since… Well, he couldn't really identify the exact moment he'd known. But he'd known he'd wanted to ask. Kathy had helped him, really helped him work through the last of his doubts.

He wanted a life with Meredith. He wanted it more than anything else he'd ever wanted. He loved her to the point that he hurt just thinking about the concept of being without her. It was like his life before he'd met her had been some sort of fuzzy, black and white, soundless sketch, and now, the world was in Technicolor, in focus, with surround sound… And it was beautiful. She was beautiful. And he wanted it to last forever.

He. Wanted. Her. Forever.

So, why. Why. Why had he ever asked her about marriage now? Actually, he hadn't even really asked. He'd sort of just commanded. And that was…

Really stupid.

Sex made him dumb, he decided on second number two, and finally, he understood Meredith's compulsion to knit. Because sex… He was convinced now that orgasms killed brain cells. Sort of like head trauma. Perhaps he was a few scoops low on neurons. He did have plenty of head trauma. And he definitely had plenty of orgasms. Combined, the results must have catastrophically affected his IQ.

But the simple fact of the matter was that he was the dumbest, stupidest, most idiotic person ever to walk the earth. Because this was Meredith. This was Meredith, and she was going to bolt now, and he might never get her to slow down long enough to say another word to her.

And even then, even with that creeping realization that he'd just made a horrific mistake… He didn't regret it. Because he wanted it. He really wanted it.

By second number three, the worry began to sink its claws in, rending, tearing. He didn't regret it. But she wasn't saying a word, let alone fleeing. And…

"Crap," she whispered.

"Meredith," he replied, finding his voice somewhere in the fray, but it was a cracking, barely there thing that sounded awful, like he was recovering from laryngitis.

Meredith blinked. Her eyes flared so he could see the whites of them all around the soft gray of her irises. She swallowed, visibly. Her muscles started to tense.

"Meredith," he said again, his voice stronger. He tried to brush her arm, tried to soothe her, but she pulled away like his touch had burned her. A spear of dread plunged through the space behind his heart. She was…

"Crap!" she repeated in an ugly exclamation as she sat up, stumbled from the bed, and started to gather up her clothes.

Derek took one breath, two breaths, three, trying to garner some energy. Any energy. He rubbed his hands down over his face. "Crap," he said with a sigh. A twisting groan rolled out of him as he forced himself into a sitting position. His head swam, and the dim on-call room revolved around him like he was on a slow-moving carousel. He sat there, sort of curled over on himself for a moment, breathing. She had a head start on him. Her underwear was back on already, and he…

He heaved a breath and stood, only to have to sit back down again when his body simply just… Didn't. Didn't do what he wanted it to do. His muscles cried at him. The haze of sex was gone with the movement, and now he hurt. Everywhere. His headache was already starting to throb again. His mouth felt dry. He was starving. Breakfast. Should have had some…

"Meredith, please," he said. "I don't…" Have the energy to chase you. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing thickly. This was not good. He opened his eyes again. After a few blinking seconds, the world sharpened from the blotted mess into something he could identify.

Her gaze darted to him, sitting naked on the gurney. He ran his hands through his hair, unashamed despite the horrified look on her face. She shook out her pants and started to pull them on, her movements tight, stiff, jerky.

"We should get back," she said. "They're going to wonder why we haven't come back yet. They'll think something is wrong with you, and they'll freak out."

He met her eyes in the relative darkness. She took a small breath. Her eyes were wide, and he could almost hear her heart throbbing in the silence, rapid thumpity-thump, thump thumps, like she was some sort of canary staring down a cobra, unable to move, terrified, and he felt awful for it, like some sort of twisted movie villain who'd sprung his trap on the unsuspecting, buxom heroine. Except he hadn't meant for it to be a trap. He hadn't meant for it to be anything bad… He wanted to marry her. It wasn't bad. It wasn't.

"Meredith—" he managed.

"They'll freak out, Derek," she said, her voice low and falsely calm as she interrupted him. And then she started frantically searching for her shirt.

He was going to have to move. She was going to bolt, and he was still naked. He was going to have to… If he wanted her. Move. Move, damn it. Move. Get up, fool, he told himself. Get up before the rest of your life runs out the door. Get up. Get up, get up, get up. He jammed his hands down onto his thighs and threw himself forward, letting momentum carry him up to something that resembled being upright. He groaned. He didn't even try to hide how bad he was feeling, despite the fact that he had no desire for her to stay merely out of sympathy or some sense of obligation. But she was so engrossed in trying to find her clothing that she didn't seem to even notice he'd moved. He leaned to the left, catching his balance with his foot as he scraped it across the floor, barely. He swallowed and stood there for a minute, just trying to get the room to stop spinning.

She was going to leave. She was going to leave. She was going to leave, and he could barely fucking walk. He'd just asked her for the rest of her life, and she couldn't look at him without… Fear. He could… He would make himself. Move. Move to… He wobbled to his boxers. Leaning down to pick them up was torture as his overused quads and lower back began to whine, whine, whine. Capture the flag the night before had been a bad idea. He could have managed the sex or the capture the flag, but both… Both seemed to have done bad, bad things to him.

Fucking car accident. Fucking concussion. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he hissed inwardly.

He pulled his boxers up to his waist, where they settled, cool against his skin. Boxers. Boxers he had managed. Now what. Swaying into the wall seemed to be what his legs had in mind. Tiredness tried to suck him down into a dark, dark hole. He blinked the spots away, resting his forehead against the wall, the cool, smooth, shell-white wall. It felt like an ice cube against his fever. Did he have a fever? He felt hot. He swallowed, sucked down some more air, tried to get enough to say…

"Meredith, stop," he said, his voice breaking on his vocal cords as she pulled her shirt over her head in twitchy, spooked, economized movements. He watched her as he rested, staring down the plane of the wall. It blurred, but she was sharp, sharp like a photograph. And she was running away. She was going to run… As soon as she was decent. "Please, can't we—" Talk?

Why had he ever opened his mouth? Why, why, why. Because he wanted her. And he was a stupid idiot who couldn't fucking be patient, even when he flat out knew she was gun-shy about commitment, most specifically because of things **he** had done. Fuck. But he wanted her, and that wasn't wrong. And he couldn't regret it now that he'd said it. He could be fucking angry with himself, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. He couldn't.

"My shoes. Where are they?" she said. She started to look around for them.

He breathed once, twice, three times again, and pushed off the wall to propel himself toward his jeans. They were on the floor by the foot of the cot. He leaned over, and everything swam, but he blinked it all away, stepped into them, and pulled them up to his waist. Buttoning them was not nearly as fun as the unbuttoning had been. He wanted to growl in frustration as his shaking hands slipped and slid along the buttons, tangled in the activity of it as he tried to keep his eyes on bolting Meredith, rather than watch what the hell he was doing.

He found his shirt mixed in with the blankets on the mattress. He swallowed thickly, barely curtailing a groan as he yanked it down over his head. Shoes. Where… He wandered over to the left one. He couldn't even remember kicking them off. Couldn't remember…

Something crinkled behind him. He saw Meredith stuffing her scrub cap in the plastic gift shop bag. She had both her shoes on. He rushed to get the second one on, and had just finished lacing it up when she rushed for the doorway.

"Meredith," he said, stumbling forward as he tied off the lace. "Wait."

She stared at him like some sort of scared rabbit, and then she was out the door. "Car. I… Car. I'll meet you," she muttered as she left.

He stumbled out into the hallway after her, leaning against the walls, against anything that would support him. Railings. Hospitals had railings. After the darkness of the on-call room, the fluorescent lights that ran along the ceiling were positively painful. Each time he blinked, it was like tiny toothpicks were stabbing at his eyes. He wanted to close his eyes and curl up, but if he closed his eyes, he wouldn't be able to see anything. The rest of his life was escaping. And he couldn't let it. Not until he had a chance to talk with her, make some fucking sense of things.

"Meredith," he said. His arms started to shake under his weight like he had done too many push ups. Hell, he'd spent half the night crawling through the damned bushes. It was the same thing. "Damn it," he hissed. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Why had he opened his stupid mouth? Why?

Because he wanted her. Wanted. Wanted. Wanted.

He curled against the wall for a moment, breathing, stunned as everything went topsy-turvy for a second. He bit back on the sudden nausea. She was leaving. She was leaving. She was leaving.

Stupid.

"Hey! You can't be here! This area is restricted!" someone shouted from behind him, guttural and mean.

The sudden intrusion into his own mental space jabbed him back into stumbling movement. "Sorry, got lost," he called back over his shoulder, cringing at how… off he sounded. His muscles snapped and twined with tension. He propelled himself after her, watched with a frown as her tiny, lithe little body disappeared around the corner. Everything. Everything hurt. It hurt.

He'd been sore from the night before. Now he felt more than sore. He felt torn. And tiredness stuck behind his eyes like some sort of thick, melted, gooey taffy. He couldn't… He growled at himself. Weak. He wanted to yell in frustration, wanted to yell, and rage and stomp, except he was so tired he'd probably just fall over if he tried. Through sheer act of will, he managed to keep her mostly in sight.

Meredith plunged through the halls, past the waiting room for the trauma ward to the wide, sliding bay doors. She moved out into the parking lot at a tromping, fleeing, breakneck pace. He moved after her, slower, ganglier, but he managed. Until the door whooshed open for him, and he stepped out onto the sidewalk. 

It was like a wall of light had collided with him and slammed knives back through his eyeballs on impact. For a second, he couldn't breathe, and he certainly couldn't see. He stood there, frozen, his breath hanging on a gasp. He flailed, searching for his sunglasses. He could have sworn they'd been hooked on his jeans, but… But now they weren't. Where had he? Where…

He couldn't remember, and he wanted to shout until the lack of air asphyxiated him.

When he tried to think back to where he'd put them, all he could think about was Meredith's naked skin sliding against his own, Meredith's slick, tight heat, clenching around him as she gasped and writhed, the soft gray of her eyes, hazed with sex as she stared at him while he speared her. His sunglasses hadn't entered into the equation. And he couldn't…

He blinked once, and the flare of brilliance tamped down into something more like an overexposed photograph than staring straight into the sun. It was too bright. Too bright. But he would… He squinted, put a hand over his brow. Tears formed in irritation as he forced himself to look, look despite the jabbing pain pulsing back through his skull. Movement. He saw the blur that had to be Meredith about forty paces ahead of him, and he forced himself to move.

Bright. Bright. It was too bright. He wobbled, but righted himself before the pavement rushed up to grab him. He swallowed against the sudden queasiness developing in the back of his throat.

"Meredith, wait. Please, stop. Just stop," he called, his voice sounding strangely twisted and hoarse to his own ears. He'd been making lots of noise, lots of… Grunting. Earlier. And now he was hoarse. Stupid, stupid sex.

She didn't even look at him before she crumbled herself into the driver's side of Kathy's Mercedes. He shambled around to the passenger side, praying she hadn't locked him out of the car or something. He blindly searched for the handle, feeling along the side of the door. The metal on the car was hot. Hot and… there. He curled his fingers under the lever and pulled. The handle gave way, and he collapsed gratefully into the car. He blinked, barely able to see straight.

Bright. Bright. Too bright. He leaned his head back against the headrest and rolled to face her. Spinning. Spinning. Things were spinning. But now that he was there, had an audience with her, he couldn't let her see it, couldn't let her see that he was about ready to keel over, because she would… And he didn't want her to… He wanted her to listen and not feel guilty.

She still wasn't looking at him. He had a minute. He swallowed, blinked, wiped the tears back with his shaking hands, and forced himself to box up all the badness happening right then. He boxed it up, until he could see if he squinted and ignored the pain. As long as he didn't have to chase her again, he could manage. He could… He breathed.

"Meredith, I—" he began, but she sat there, staring blankly over the steering wheel at the sunny, shiny parking lot that he couldn't even force himself to look at, and she cut him off.

"But we don't want to get married," she said, her voice tiny. Almost frightened.

He swallowed and shoved all the remaining complaints his body was lodging down, deep down. They could wait. They could wait, but this… This couldn't. This was the rest of his life. This was Meredith. This couldn't wait.

"Meredith," he said, reaching across the parking brake to grab her arm. He rubbed it with the pad of his thumb. Her skin felt cool against his own. Fever. He hoped she wouldn't notice. "I lied."

She blinked, finally turning to face him. Her eyes widened. "You what?"

"You practically spat at me when I mentioned it before," he said. "What was I supposed to say to that? Of course I shrugged it off and said no, I wasn't interested."

"But…"

By some miracle, he managed to hold his hands still as he reached across to cup her face. "Meredith, I love you. I want you. I want this." He drew his hands down and rested them on either side of her neck, just over the bumps of her clavicles, resting, waiting, trying to assure her that he was there and he wasn't leaving. 

"But what about what I want?" she asked, her voice, tiny, small, like someone lost in the fray of life, unsure of anything. She met his eyes, blinked, and her eyes watered over just a little, enough to send a pair of tears sluicing down with big, fat, plops as they rolled off her cheeks and landed on his forearms.

He swallowed, drawing back as though she'd slapped him away. "What do you want, Mere? If I can give it to you, I'll give it. Just…" Please, don't say no.

"I don't know," she whined. "I love you, but…" 

"But what?"

She started to cry. Again. She started to cry, and the sounds of her sobs slipped under his ribs like a knife. He sat there, torn between trying to comfort her and giving her space. He didn't know what the hell to do right then. He was sitting there, a pile of confused, messy thoughts. He didn't regret asking, but, he'd made her cry. And that, he would regret forever. This was supposed to be…

Different.

She was supposed to have smiled, said yes, and they would get their happily ever after. In his fantasies, that was how things happened. Except she was crying, and he was… Sick with more things than just a concussion. Confused. Hurting.

"I just barely got used to the idea of wanting everything, seizing it for myself," she moaned. "And you… You went and shook it all up again. I feel like a freaking snow globe. Stewart warned me you were going to… but I thought. I thought you'd do the kneeling thing at a restaurant or something, because…" She paused, stopping to shrug at him helplessly. "Because you're you. And that's the sort of cheesy thing you'd do. I thought I had some time. I didn't expect… I… I…"

"Meredith, Meredith," he whispered. "Just because I proposed… It doesn't mean…" 

"It doesn't mean what?" 

"It doesn't change anything. It doesn't mean anything has to happen tomorrow. It just means we know where the end of the road is going to be."

"But… But Cristina…" Meredith's voice broke, and Derek fought to hold the fury down as understanding crashed into him like an exclamation point at the end of a sentence.

He wished, just this once, that his friend had not gotten it in his head that he wanted to marry Cristina. Meredith had told him about the cake tasting, told him about Burke's increasing list of demands that were driving Cristina into fit after fit. And now, because of Burke, she thought… She thought… And now it was ruining everything. Because Meredith and Cristina were each other's person. Of course Meredith would compare her situation to Cristina's. Even though it wasn't even remotely similar. Because Derek Shepherd and Preston Burke had egos the size of Texas, but that was about where the similarities ended.

"Meredith, I'm not Preston Burke," Derek said. "I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to do yet. I'm not going to force a date on you. I'm not going to make you pick a damned cake. Hell, if you want a wedding with nothing but those little hotdog things on sticks for the menu, I really don't care." He paused, breathed, blinked, tried to keep himself together. "Well, okay, I care, but I'd still do it. I love you. I want you. And if that means I have to wait until you're ready, then, fine, I'll wait. But I want to marry you. I couldn't imagine not marrying you at this point. You're it for me, Meredith. You're my end of the road. I loved Addison. I did." She was staring at him oddly now, and he couldn't help but just keep talking, talking, talking. Anything to get her to figure out he was serious, and that he wanted her, and that it was okay to say yes. "But it never… It was never like this, Meredith. It never… Clicked like this. You fit with me. I fit with you. I know we both have issues we need to work on. I know we both have baggage that we're trying to chuck. But I… You're just… It. I want to marry you, Meredith. I want that. Badly. And, even if you don't want to say yes yet, I want you to know that that's where my head is at right now. I'm sorry… I'm sorry I was so abrupt like that. It probably wasn't the most romantic thing I could have done, but I don't regret the actual saying of it. At that moment, that moment when I said it, it just seemed perfect, and I…"

His voice fell away, and the words just… stopped, leaving him abandoned on the brink of explanation. A strange anger racked him, anger at himself, for helping her get to this place, this place where he had to be sitting there spouting his undying devotion, just to get her to even consider, anger at her, for being so stubborn and flighty, despite the fact that most of it was his fault, anger at the world, and most of all, anger at the stupid car and the stupid deer that had made him crash it. Because he felt terrible. He felt terrible, and he had just proposed, and he should be on top of the world. God, it was so fucking bright. He leaned back against the seat and tried to breathe, tried to keep his eyes open and looking at her like he was supposed to be. It was so hard. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to curl up and sleep. She was so upset she didn't notice, and that started the whole thing again, anger. Anger at them being in this situation.

He just wanted her to want him.

She sniffled. "I do want to say yes," she said as she wiped her hands at her face, drawing the little tear tracks across her skin like a layer of wet paint. "I do."

His heart thudded in his chest. "Then say yes. And we'll work on the rest later."

She turned away again and stared out at the parking lot. He took the opportunity to wipe his tearing eyes again and rest, eyes shut against the wall of brightness. Bright. Too bright.

Her voice broke through the roar of blood in his ears. "Would I have to wear a ring?" 

"If you want a ring, I'll buy you a ring, Mere," he said, forcing his eyes back open, forcing, forcing. Why were eyelids such heavy things? And why did the sun have to be out today? She was still looking away. "Any ring you want."

He got a grip on his composure just in time, because she turned back to face him. "But what do you want?"

He breathed through his nose. "I just want to marry you." 

"You really don't care about… the details?" 

"You. Me. Wedding," he said, shrugging. "The rest I don't care about, no."

A new well of tears collected in a film across her eyes. She blinked, and they went careening down her face. "Who would give me away?" she asked.

His heart twisted. "Oh, Mere…" he whispered. He reached across and brushed them away for her, reached across the parking brake and wrapped himself around her. He suddenly didn't care how uncomfortable he was, didn't care how sick he felt. "I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to push you. It's the last thing I intended. I just…" 

Want you.

"I'm not used to being wanted," she whispered into his neck, as if she'd heard him thinking. Her tiny fingers clutched at the nape of his neck, curling into his hair, and it was the one soothing thing he felt in a mess of discomfort.

"Meredith, I want you," he said. A sigh ratcheted his body, and he buried his face in her shoulder, where it was dark, and cool, and he could smell the lavender of her conditioner, the cinnamon of her body lotion, and it was just… A rest from the world that watched him with a gleeful, sadistic smile, waiting for him to look up so it could plunge its bitter knives in. Again. "I want you more than that job. I want you more than air, sometimes," he murmured into her neck. 

She brushed her fingers through his hair, ran her hands down his back. It felt so nice. So nice. And he wanted to sleep but… "You'd really let me have a wedding banquet with nothing but hotdogs?" she asked.

"Um," he said, unable to stop the wry, breaking chuckle that spilled out from his lips. "Well, I kind of hope you would rather have something actually edible. But if it meant you'd say yes, then, yeah, Mere. I'd live with it." He pulled back from her, back into the brightness, and he forced himself not to flinch as the stabbing slammed into him again. 

"Hotdogs are totally edible."

He flopped his head back against the seat and laughed. "Do you know what's in hotdogs, Mere?" 

"Do I want to?" she asked. 

"Probably not." 

"Okay," she said.

Silence stretched between them like the hammer pulling back in a gun. It was a moment of anticipation, a dreadful, cloying moment, that had his heart thundering in his chest, because he could see that she was deciding. He could see it from the way the thoughts crossed her face, each one clear and readable, just by the way her lips curled or her nostrils flickered or her eyebrows twitched. She wore everything on her face, vulnerable, and she was deciding. She was…

The bullet ignited, and the silence tore away.

"I don't have to pick a date if I say yes?" she said. "I don't have to…"

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, Meredith."

Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. The whites of her knuckles grew white, white, whiter. She swallowed. "Where would we live? After… Where… I can't kick Izzie and Alex out… I can't…"

He reached to touch her shoulder. "Meredith, breathe." 

"Sorry."

"Stop worrying about the details right now. We don't need details. All I'm asking for is--"

"You're asking me for forever, Derek," she snapped. "You can't ask me forever and not expect me to freak out a little. I'm… Me."

He smiled. "I love that you're you." 

"I'm sorry I'm… You really want forever? With me?" 

"I really do," he whispered.

She blinked and took a long, slow breath. "What if I don't want kids?"

It wasn't what he'd been expecting. Her words. Not… What he'd been expecting. He felt like she'd sucker punched him, gone for the guts and just… Slam. He sucked in a breath, reeling.

"I…" he managed, but his voice was taken away from him. She didn't want kids? He'd had a feeling that she would, at the very least, want to wait for quite a few years if she was even willing to try at all, but, he'd never heard her come right out and say… It… The crush wouldn't let him breathe.

She stared at him, her gaze serious, as if she were trying to separate his layers with an apple peeler or something. "What if I don't want kids, Derek?" she said, her voice demanding, demanding that he face the precipice and answer. "What then? I know you. I know you want them." 

He swallowed, grunted, tried to find his voice. She didn't want kids. It… No kids. But… But she was Meredith. And she was…

Meredith.

And he loved her.

"Meredith, having a baby with you…" he replied, choking slightly on the words. "That would be… That would be the greatest gift in the world to me. I sort of always assumed that I would never get a chance to be a dad. With Addison. She just didn't… She's not a mothering type. And I… Well, you know I want kids, Meredith. I can't lie about that. I want them. I really want them. But…" He stopped, stopped, and breathed. And then he embraced the rest of his life without regret. "If having kids means I can't have you… It's… It's not a deal breaker. That you don't want them. It's not."

"But it would hurt you," she said.

"It would hurt me more if you walked away from me," he replied.

"I just don't…" She paused to shake her head and sigh. "I don't understand why you're willing to give up so much for me, Derek. I don't…"

"Meredith…"

"You'd make such a great dad," she said, her voice twisting with crying that wasn't happening. "You would. You're so good with kids. And I… I'm just… Me."

"You're the love of my life, Meredith," he said, interrupting her. "If you have kids, you'll be perfect to me. If you don't, you'll still be perfect. I just want you to say yes, Meredith. I want you. Please."

"Why?" she asked, sounding utterly exasperated.

He paused. Why? Why… There really wasn't a why. "Because you make me happy, Meredith," he said. "Isn't that enough?"

The steering wheel squeaked as she clenched her fingers around it and wrung them nervously against the leather. Squick, squick, squeak. Squeak, squeak, squick. It was maddening, maddening to watch her so distraught and…

"Okay," she whispered. 

His thoughts stuttered to a halt, and he just sat there, stunned, off-kilter, reeling. Things started to spin again, and he swallowed.

"Okay?" he asked.

She turned to look at him, her eyes serious, but… twinkling. "But I don't want to set a… Can we just… be… for a while?" 

His heart started to skitter. She was. She was saying… "We can just be for as long as you want, Mere," he said.

She smiled. The seat squeaked as she leaned across the parking brake, pulled a tent of his shirt and twisted it between her fingers, and gently tugged him closer. "So," she said, her lips a breath from his. "I guess this makes me your fiancé." 

"I guess it does," he said. She leaned closer, and they met. She sighed into his mouth, and he drank her down until he was dizzy with it. He leaned, ran his fingers through her hair. The seats squeaked as they shifted. The air wafted with a sudden heat. The sound of breathing rushed against his eardrums like a caress. She whimpered as he pushed into her with his tongue, and they mingled, skin to skin in a delicious slip, slip, slide of twisting, slick heat. Her hand went up the back of his shirt, running along his spine, and he rolled into her like a wave. The parking brake jabbed his quad, but he didn't care, didn't care one bit.

When she pulled back, her flesh, pale before with anxiety and indecision, was flushed, rosy, and covered with just the faintest sheen of sweat. Her hair was a muss of flying, wayward strands. Her lips were swollen. And she looked… Happy.

"We can't have sex in Kathy's car. I like Kathy," Meredith said, panting, but grinning.

He snorted. "I think sex right now would kill me, Mere. You don't have to worry." He pulled back, enjoying the slight buzz that took away his aching for a moment. He thumped his head against the cool glass of the window and sighed. Cool, it felt. Good. A distressed sound ran over his vocal cords before he could stop it, but he didn't think she'd heard. Sex. In the car. Yeah right.

"Do we have to tell everyone yet?" she asked.

He rolled his head to face her and regarded her. "You decide, Mere. The rest… Whatever you want." He had what he wanted. He had it. He had her.

She remained silent for a moment. "I think I'd like to wait until we can at least come up with a cover story."

"A cover story?" 

"I'm not telling your mother you proposed to me naked. We should do the kneeling restaurant thing, you know, just to make it official."

"You want me to…" 

"Yeah," she said, her lips quirking into an evil grin. "Surprise me."

"We don't go out to eat that often, Mere. I don't think it would be much of a surprise." 

"It doesn't have to be over food. Just…" She shrugged. "Surprise me." 

"Okay. I'll um… Damn. Now I have to get creative."

"At least you know I'll say yes." 

They sank into a warm, comfortable silence for a moment, and he sat there, warm, shaky, and reeling. He had to propose… Again? How the hell… He swallowed. He'd tried to do the planning thing with Addison, and that hadn't worked out at all, because he'd just ended up fumbling all over himself and spilling the question before he was ready, he'd been so nervous. But… But this was Meredith. And she wanted a surprise. She would… He would give her a surprise.

Because he had what he wanted. And if he could give her something she wanted, well, he'd kill himself to do it.

"So," he said, his voice wavering as the stress of the morning finally started to leak away. She settled back into the seat and started fumbling for her seatbelt. "Are we okay now?"

"Yeah," she said, grinning. The skin around her eyes crinkled, and she looked… Looked like she was glowing. "We're okay, fiancé." She giggled, giggled as if the word sounded foreign to her, and yet… perfect. He watched her lips move as she mouthed the word again, silent, staring out at the stabbing, brilliant parking lot with a sort of delirious glee.

Warmth slipped around his heart and cupped it. For just a minute, he was in a perfect place. And for that moment, that blissful, perfect moment, he let himself just be, and watched her with a growing, exploding delight. 

"Good," he said, smiling weakly as the thrill washed back down his throat and left him realizing his box was coming loose at the seams. She was going to marry him. She was. His. And… "Good. That's. Good." He collapsed back against the seat, finally letting the sickness roll over him like a wave. He closed his eyes, shut the world out, and tried not to shake as everything swept back over him.

"Oh, my god," her voice whispered from far away. He felt her hand on his shoulder, and then her touch slipped up along his skin to his neck, to the spot just under his jaw line where she would find his pulse, thready, fast, and badly in need of a pacemaker right then. "Derek?"

"I want to go home," he said, swallowing. "Please."

He couldn't move. He didn't want to. He just wanted to curl up in the dark right then and die. Except it wasn't dark. And he couldn't.

There was a long moment of silence, and he wondered, agonized, if she was ever going to start the car. He heard a crinkling noise. "Your sunglasses," she whispered. "I took them and put them with my scrub cap. I… Didn't realize… This whole time?"

He flinched and then relaxed as he figured out she was putting the sunglasses on his face, hooking them gently over his ears. He blinked, tried opening his eyes again experimentally, but even behind the shade of the lenses, everything was still a wash of painful, bright, stabbing color. He was overexposed, and it was way, way too late for the stupid things to do much good. He closed his eyes.

"My head hurts," he said simply.

The car started without delay, and soon he felt the floor under his feet vibrating. The car moved, thumping painfully over things like speed bumps, jerking, rolling, wobbling. It made everything swim, even with his eyes shut. He sat, silent, breathing, in misery.

In misery, but…

He smiled anyway. Because she was going to marry him. The pain bled away into the background, and the smile widened. He couldn't turn it off. It was just there, stuck on his face like a neon post-it note. She was going to marry him. She was. She was his. His thoughts drifted. He thought he heard Meredith cursing at some, "Asshole! He cut me off! Five damned cars in the whole of the county, and he still found me to cut me off!" but it was in the peripheral. Just a minute detail in a sketch of thousands. A sigh lingered in his chest, and sleep finally came, despite the roil in his gut, the spinning, the lancing headache. Because she was going to marry him.

And that was the best morphine in the world.


	28. Chapter 26

**Author's Notes: Sorry this took so long, y'all! I was unexpectedly out of town, and to top that off, I left my thumb drive with my story notes at home. Anyway, just to let those who are curious know, I think I've managed to map out the rest of this story fairly well. I can definitely see this story having at least 8 more parts, maybe more, we'll see, but I have a pretty solid road map down in outline form for the first time, instead of just working on the fly. We'll see how it turns out -- lord knows, my plans for this story have gone up in flames at least... well, almost every chapter haha. Derek's proposal surprised the crap out of me as much as it did you, for instance :) Anyway, thank you so much for all the continued reviews! I really love to read them. They add a whole new facet of fun to the writing process. I'm so glad I can share my work and have it be enjoyed and consumed by others. It's worth it anyway, but that makes it so much more exciting and dynamic!  
**

* * *

Meredith sighed as she trudged inside from the deck. The whole family, minus Derek and Nancy, who were presumably still asleep, and Natalie's sub family crew, who had gone out for a private dinner for some important something-or-other, was out on the deck, drinking, chatting, laughing. It was like barbecue 2.0, only with no barbecuing, or much eating really, just drinking and pretzels and stuff. Hors'douvres. Whatever. Okay, so it was more of a generic gathering. She'd been yanked outside into the crush of jovial words very shortly after she'd left Derek sleeping in the dark of their room.

He'd been really kind of out of it when she'd pulled the car up to the house. When she'd shaken him awake, he'd stared at her with the most ridiculous, druggy smile on his face that it'd made her blush. It would have been comical watching him fumble around with his seatbelt after that, watching him sort of stumble half-drunkenly out of the car, were it any other day, any other week. She'd walked after him as he'd slogged into the house and collapsed into bed. He'd been asleep again before she'd had a chance to say anything, so she'd just taken his shoes off, pulled up the blankets, and left him alone to recuperate. She'd stood in the doorway for a moment before she'd left, watching the breaths rasp in and out of him. Fiancé. She imagined that the smile slathered on her face as she'd stood there, staring unabashedly was similar to the one he'd had when he'd woken up, but she just didn't care. It was like a drug.

Fiancé.

How about that?

She still couldn't quite wrap her mind around the fact that she'd agreed. She'd gone into this family reunion thing hoping to regain a little of the trust she'd lost, maybe get them back on track, maybe try and practice enduring the family thing that she knew she would have to endure if she ever wanted anything more with him, but instead, she'd managed to seal her future with him. Permanently. She had a fiancé, a real-fake proposal thing pending, and a real proposal already finished. Derek Shepherd. Fiancé. Derek. Hers. Really, officially, permanently hers. And she never would have realized what a difference that would make until it had happened… She'd never realized how much she had been just waiting for the other shoe to drop. She'd never realized.

He'd fallen in love with her again over crappy cereal. And they'd done things. Worked through things. Talked more that week than they ever had. He'd bought her a gift, the most special, beautiful gift she could ever recall receiving. They'd had sex, lots of noisy, shouty sex. That had all been good, all helped bleed the insecurities away like a leech sucking away at a sickness, but they'd still lingered, the doubts, the insecurities, still gnawed, even after all of that.

And then he'd freakin' proposed. She'd tried, tried in a snarling, ugly, Rotweiller way to get him to budge, to get him to run away like she'd always thought he would somewhere deep in the back of her brain, the part that thought happiness was for people who were not her. Except he hadn't. He hadn't. I want you, I want this, I love you. He'd said those things over and over and over again, even when she'd gone for the jugular and threatened him with no kids. She hadn't meant it, not like that. She knew she didn't want them now. But eventually, maybe, after she settled into residency… Who knew? The look on his face… It'd made her wish she hadn't gone that far. But he'd still wanted her anyway. He'd still…

Her eyes stung. Derek Shepherd inexplicably loved her. And she was starting to get it. Get it in a deep sense. All the way to the heart. And the stupid, flag-waving, no-happy part of her brain was finally starting to shut the hell up. He loved her, he desired her, and he didn't seem to be doing anything remotely close to leaving.

Derek Shepherd was her fiancé.

Fiancé.

And she had a family that was actually rather nice, a group of people she found herself looking forward to conversing with… She'd told Stewart about her stupid twisty family with Ellis and Thatcher, and he'd barely blinked. Kathy always seemed to know exactly what Meredith was thinking or feeling or needing at that moment, and, though Meredith had mentioned the bad family stuff and not gone into specifics, she got the distinct impression that Kathy understood on a deep level, and despite that, hadn't said a word. It was…

It just felt weird. To be totally un-judged.

She was un-judged and loved.

And it felt…

Really. Damned. Good.

Her very first instinct had been to run to her cell phone and call Cristina, to tell her person. It was an instinct she'd had to quell over and over throughout the day. Derek was supposed to do the second proposal first, and she'd barely had an afternoon to process this, and it was, it was…

"You're letting flies in," Stewart said with a laugh somewhere behind her.

She shook her head and sighed, forcing herself to push the rest of the way through the sliding door. The hush of the door as she drew it along its tracks slowly replaced the noise from outside, which bled into distant mumbles as the door cut her off from the gathering beyond it. She'd made the mistake of getting up, intending to go to the bathroom, to poke her head in and check on Derek, but she'd been diverted. She'd been sent… on a mission. For beer. There was supposedly a twenty-four pack of the stuff in the pantry. The case that Stewart had picked up earlier. John had apparently also made a beer run, and they'd just finished going through all of that.

She headed toward the pantry, which was set behind folding louver doors in the hallway that led to the front of the house where the foyer and the living room were situated.

"I'm sorry," Nancy's familiar voice said. Her tone had a sobbing quality to it. "For being so awful to you. And her. I…"

"If you'd just give her a chance, Nancy..."

Meredith thumped to a stop when she heard Derek's voice. He was awake? Her first thought was that he sounded great, really refreshed. Her second thought was that they were most certainly talking about her, and she had no business listening in. Her third thought was a childish, stompy but I want to listen in. And her fourth thought involved wishing Stewart had gotten his own damned beer. She'd rather enjoyed being off in happy, I'm-getting-married-to-Derek land, and now she was stuck in moral quandary land. Listening was bad. Bad, bad, bad. She'd just finished fixing the trust issues. This wasn't even close to the same realm of seriousness, but, still. Happy, happy land. She wanted to be there. Not in the kitchen being rude. Beer was stupid.

"This… This whole thing," Nancy said. A sigh followed. "It's made me into a person I hate."

"I know the feeling, Nancy," Derek replied. "I do. I really do."

Meredith blinked. The conversation was coming from the dining room. Beer. She had to get the beer. She walked toward the pantry, trying not to listen, but it was pretty much impossible.

Nancy asked, "Does it stop?"

"Being with Meredith makes everything stop," Derek replied, his voice dropping into that low, worshiping, reverent tone he always seemed to have around her, always seemed to use whenever he even so much as pronounced her name. Her heart thudding in her chest, Meredith paused to lean against the doorframe and smile. She hadn't known he was like that even when she wasn't around. Wasn't technically around. Shouldn't be around, neither really nor technically. Bad, Meredith. Bad!

"I can't go barhopping with kids," Nancy said.

"Are you sure it's…" Derek sighed. There was a thump against the dining room table. "I mean just because Addison and I didn't work out doesn't mean…"

Meredith shook her head. Stop. Stop listening. This wasn't her business. It-- She forced herself to make her legs move the rest of the way toward the pantry, away from the conversation that she was a rude, rude person for even contemplating listening to, let alone actually listening to. Rude. It was rude, and it wasn't nice, and it-- Beer. She was there for beer. She shoved the pantry door open, quietly, so they couldn't tell she was being rude, or thinking about being rude, or contemplating thinking about being rude.

"It's over, Der," Nancy said. "I can't look at him anymore without feeling sick. I tried. I tried for months, and I just can't do it. I held on because… You were trying. Well, I thought you were trying and… I thought I could do it, too. But I can't. I'm tired."

She blinked. There was no beer in the pantry at all. Cans and boxes and spices and all manner of foodstuffs were practically exploding from the shelves, but nowhere was there a damned case of beer. Stewart. Liar. Stewart… Well… She bent down to rummage. Maybe she was missing something silly because her brain was off in the dining room being freakin' rude. Stop it. She closed her eyes, tried to make the voices go away. And then she realized she sounded like some sort of mental asylum case, and she snorted. She drew her hand to her mouth, trying desperately not to let it become full-blown laughter. Her face turned red. She blinked.

Beer. Look. For the beer. Hah. Now, she sounded drunky.

"I couldn't either, Nancy."

"Because of her," Nancy spat. "You couldn't try because of her."

She pulled back the large Tupperware containers on the floor that had flour and other 'Izzie things' in them. But this was stupid. Why would Stewart have buried a case of his ambrosia? Maybe he'd already drunk the damned thing, and the alcohol had blacked out his stupid memory or something. Maybe… Stupid, drunk giraffes. She hated them.

"Nancy… Meredith was the only reason I tried at all. She fixed… a lot of wounds. Would you please just give her a chance?"

Meredith sighed. There was definitely, certainly, irrefutably no beer here. She stood up and turned…

"I'll… I'll try."

Only to slam her knee into the freaking louver door, which had sort of rolled shut a little on its own, and she hadn't noticed. Because, hello, rude stupidness. There was a loud crash as the vibration of her impact knocked over a cascade of cracker boxes, cereal boxes, other light things that had been precariously perched on the shelves.

"Ow!" she hissed as she hopped once, twice, and then fell unceremoniously onto her butt. Her hand knocked over at least four of the Tupperware containers as she tried to catch herself. To add insult to injury, an unopened plastic bag filled with a stack of flowery napkins conked her forehead as it fell from the top shelf and bounced into the pile of collapsed rubble with a dull thud. She blinked, momentarily stunned.

Oops.

There was a shuffle of movement, the squeak of chairs, the thump of feet, and she looked up to find Derek staring down at her, a bemused yet concerned expression on his face. Nancy walked up behind Derek, looking slightly less concerned. Puffy, red eyes, wet skin, and red, blotchy cheeks marked her tears, even though they weren't falling anymore. But she didn't look… hostile. That was a start.

Meredith swallowed. "You look so much better," she said, as if she weren't sitting there in a pile of boxes in the pantry, obviously having overheard the jagged pieces of Nancy's soul being poured onto dining room table.

Honestly, he looked rather bedraggled. Derek had swapped his frayed jeans for pajama pants, though he still had on the same shirt. His hair stuck up all over, little spikes and twists unfurling like he'd been plugged in. But his eyes were a brilliant, clear blue. The skin around his eyes was relaxed, not pinched with pain, he had color in his complexion, and his posture seemed… much less stilted, much less like he was trying to nurse muscles that weren't cooperating.

Derek's lips quirked into an amused looking smile. He leaned over a little, stuck out his hand for her to grasp. "I just needed some more sleep, I think," he said. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she grunted as she grabbed his palm and pulled herself to her feet. "I just banged my knee." Boxes tumbled. She stepped in close to him. He smelled… really good. And he supported her weight along with his own with no trouble at all. And that was… creating thoughts that involved sex.

Fiancé. Sex. Fiancé. Sex.

She was slowly drifting back to the happy place, and this was a very bad time for it.

"There's no beer," she said as she skittered backward out of his grip. "In the pantry. I was looking. For beer. Stewart told me he put the case he bought in the pantry. As you can see, lots of food. But no beer. Which sucks, really. Because now I want one," she said. She looked at Nancy. "Badly."

A weak little smile pursed Nancy's lips. "You know, most people tend to fall over after the beer has been consumed."

"Meredith likes to do things backward," Derek replied, an evil, lecherous grin sweeping over his face.

Meredith's mouth fell open. There were so, so many things that were wrong with that statement, she just didn't know where to begin. Nancy snorted. "Derek?" Meredith hissed. "I'm not sure that's convincing your sister that I'm not slutty."

Derek's eyebrows crinkled together, and his whole body started to shiver with laughter. "I didn't mean sex, Mere."

She glared. "Which you won't be getting any more of today. Backward, forward, diagonally, upside-down, or any other way it's possible, no matter how I-just-woke-up-and-I'm-hot you are. And you so totally meant sex. You had your I'm-thinking-about-sex-with-Meredith face. Unless you think about sex with other people, and that was just a generic sex face, at which point, I might have to hurt you. Because you've thoroughly messed me up to the point that you're sexy, and that's about it, unless you count Calvin Klein models and actors. But that's more of a holy crap, I'd do that type thinking than an active sort of fantasizing that involves graphic touching and stuff. Oh, and maybe the tub guy in Cosmo. Because, well. Tub. Naked. Six pack."

Derek stood there, eyes wide, widening, wider. The clock in the kitchen ticked. The fridge rumbled as it turned on. Nancy's mouth sort of… gaped. The pantry smelled like food. Lots of food.

"Any more?" Nancy asked in the long silence that followed. "You mean you've already… today… You two are like bunnies."

"Damn it!" Meredith said. "Why does nobody shut me up? Would it be too much to ask, for once, to have somebody shut me up?"

"But I like it when you ramble," Derek replied, grinning after recovering from her diatribe. "Even if it's naughty rambling."

Nancy cleared her throat. "So, did you mean the beer in the kitchen?"

"There's beer in the kitchen?" Meredith said. She darted her gaze between sister and brother. They were like a tag team. A pair of snipers. Ping, ping, ping. Sometimes, siblings sucked.

Derek shrugged when Nancy didn't answer. "Yeah. It's sitting on the breakfast table in a case."

Meredith shoved past him and Nancy and looked back into the kitchen. There it was. Sitting on the breakfast table. She'd walked. Right. Past it. Damn it.

"So, um. Yeah," Meredith said lamely. "The beer seems to be not in the pantry. At all. And Stewart is going to die soon."

She stalked off and had made it to the doorway before she remembered she'd just left the pantry in shambles. She turned around and stalked back. She shoved past Nancy, past Derek, who was standing dumbfounded in the hallway with a what-did-I-do? face slathered adorably across his confused features, made even more comical by the electrocuted randomness of his hair. She bent down and started picking up boxes.

"I knocked things over," she said dumbly.

A hand fell into her peripheral vision. Someone picked up a box. "Derek, stop--" she snapped, but when she turned, she found Nancy leaning down. "Oh."

She looked back up. Derek stood in the hallway. He shrugged at her. "I'll, uh… Take the beer out for you."

No, no, no, Meredith wanted to say to his departing back. Don't leave me here with her! Instead, she opted for a stilted, "Thank you."

Nancy nodded, and for several minutes, the silence mounted as they reorganized everything Meredith had knocked over. At first, the quiet was comfortable, but as the moments wore on, tension slipped its knife in. The seconds stretched. Boxes seemed heavier than they should have been. The effort to move things seemed more monumental. It took longer than it should have. Meredith bit her lip.

She really had been rude. Listening.

"Sorry," Meredith mumbled. "I really didn't mean to eavesdrop."

"It's okay," Nancy said as she piled up the Tupperware with the flour and the sugar and other 'Izzie things'. "I… haven't exactly been nice. To you."

Meredith couldn't really think of a kind reply to that, so she stayed quiet as she stacked the cereal boxes back in their spot, or at least, the spot she could vaguely remember them being in. They fit, at least. So… Whatever.

"You really do make him happy," Nancy commented. "He was… never like this. With Addison."

Meredith sat back into a squat. "Well, I still have no idea what he sees in me, but, yeah. I do make him happy. And he makes me happy. And that should be enough. For anyone."

Nancy nodded. "It should be."

"So, what's the problem?" Meredith asked.

Nancy sniffled. Sniffled. She reached up with her thin fingers to wipe her eyes. "I think it's me. It's just… Me."

And suddenly, they weren't talking about Meredith anymore. The floor felt like it was sliding out from under her. Meredith swallowed. What was she supposed to say to that? What…

Nancy didn't give her a chance to think of something. She brushed her hands on her pants and stood. "All picked up," she said. And then she wandered out into the kitchen, darted through the door, and disappeared into the crush of people outside on the deck, leaving Meredith gaping behind her.

Meredith sighed and put the very last box away before moving out onto the deck. Derek sat sprawled on a lawn chair, a lazy smile on his face as he talked and chatted. It was early evening, but the sun was still out. He had his sunglasses on, looking every inch of his sexy rock star just then, despite the pajamas and the explosive hair. He frowned when she came through the door. He ran his hands through his hair, and the explosion calmed into something that looked stylishly mussed. Definitely sexy rock star.

And he was very difficult to stay mad at.

Fiancé. Fiancé. Fiancé. Hers! She smiled back at him as she stepped fully out onto the deck, and his worried frown melted back into a grin, completing the sexy rock star ensemble.

"Meredith!" Stewart belted from the lawn chair opposite to Derek's. "Good girl, thank you," he added as he tilted back a beer. The case sat on the deck at his feet, torn open near the handle. He'd popped a can out and was drinking it warm. The cooler on the glass table where Kathy, John, Nancy, Ellen and Sarah sat remained unused.

She shook her head and couldn't help but laugh. "Get your own beer next time, Stu," Meredith said. "And if I find out you did that on purpose…"

Stewart frowned. "Did what?"

Meredith laughed again. "Never mind." Forgetful giraffe, apparently. Stewart shrugged and tilted back his beer to chug it.

She walked over to Derek and collapsed onto his lap. He grinned as she settled against him. "Does this mean I'm not in the doghouse?" he said, kissing her on the lips to accent his question mark. She purred into his mouth. He smelled musky and clean and just… Derek.

"Nah. You're too sexy for my wrath," she said. "Too sexy for my wrath," she whispered, lower pitched as she leaned closer. She brushed the words against the vague hint of stubble on his cheek as she nuzzled him. "And I really like your—"

He crushed her into a kiss, swallowing the word with a moan. "Kids, Mere," he mumbled, dazed and panting as he pulled back.

"I was whispering," she protested.

He chuckled, low and throaty and masculine. "I think that's my new favorite song."

She licked her lips and kissed him deeply. His fingers curled into her hair and she thrusted up against his shirt, twisting the fabric into her fingers.

"Eeeeeew," shrieked a chorus of kids. "Is that the part where the seeds bloom?"

They pulled back immediately. Derek flushed stoplight red, licked his lips, panted to recover. Meredith laughed and turned to settle next to him rather than on top of him. "No," she said at the kids as tears formed. She turned to Derek. "Blooming seeds? Derek? Come on… Don't tell me you did storks and parking cars in garages and stuff, too." She wiped her cheeks, wishing she could rip the sunglasses off his face and see his eyes, because she was certain his expression, which was already ridiculously yet adorably embarrassed, would be one for the books.

He shrugged and brushed his face with his hands. "I'm a neurosurgeon, Mere. If they want a lecture on the medulla oblongata… Great. If they want a real sex talk, they should call up Aunt Addi."

Meredith snorted. "You're such a guy."

"Well, yeah," he replied. He brightened as he changed gears. "Mmm," he mumbled and leaned in to give her a much more chaste kiss on the cheek. "So, you need to pack tonight."

She frowned. "I do?"

"We're leaving very early tomorrow morning," he said.

"But our flight out isn't until Saturday."

"Yeah, well, you said you wanted a tour, didn't you?"

"We're going to New York?" she asked, trying not to bubble over with sudden excitement. She'd just assumed that the tour thing was off the menu after all his continuing health problems had persisted. She'd been into Manhattan about four times, but it had always been a passing through sort of thing. She'd done the staple tourist things like see the top of the Empire State Building, explore the World Trade Center towers, when they'd still been standing, at least, check out the Statue of Liberty, ride the boat out to Ellis Island, all that junk. But… something about Derek taking her around made it seem like it would be new and fun. Plus, she imagined he might guide her a bit off the beaten trail.

He smiled. "Sure."

She swallowed when a thought occurred to her. He looked… So enthusiastic. So happy. And she didn't want to ruin it, but, she had to ask… She ran her fingers along his sunglasses. "Can you… drive?"

"Well, I shouldn't," he said, frowning just a little before he brightened again. "But I can point, can't I? Besides, what would be a true tour of the city without a crash course in aggressive driving?"

"Not in my car," Kathy said from the table where she and Ellen and Sarah were chatting back and forth around the empty cooler. "Sorry, Meredith."

Derek turned to grin at her. "Not to worry. Sarah volunteered hers."

Sarah frowned. "Wait, when did I volunteer?"

Derek ignored her and turned back to Meredith. "I booked reservations at the Algonquin right after Mom called to harass me to come here. We'll stay there tomorrow night."

"I wasn't harassing you, Der," Ellen said with a sigh, but amusement hugged her expression.

Meredith raised an eyebrow. "You booked hotel reservations in Manhattan two weeks ago?"

He shrugged. "Well, yeah."

"You had a tour planned before I even asked for one?"

"Well, yeah," he repeated, as if he thought the math were simple and was wondering why she wasn't following the equation process with him. "Why not? It was a great excuse for a hotel stay. You, me, hotel, no interns, no family sex talks? Plus, they have a cat."

"Huh?"

"The hotel. They have a cat. She's cute."

She smiled and leaned into him. "You booked a hotel because they have a cat?"

"It's a historic hotel!"

"With a cat."

"Yes," he said, his lips slanting into a sexy rock star smirk. He kissed her. Quick, like a habit. A sexy habit. "Matilda."

"The cat."

"Yep."

"I thought you were a dog person," she said.

He smiled back at her. "I'm more of an animal person in general, really."

She leaned into him and twisted her fingers through his hair, trying to gauge his amused expression. A cat. Who booked a hotel because of a silly cat? She wondered if he'd spun the wheel of what-hotels-here-are-good and picked the first one he could remember. It wasn't like he had much reason to use hotels when he'd owned a row house right in the city. She kissed him along the jaw line, purring at the thought of him trying to be all romantic, picking out a hotel, even back when things had been a lot rockier between them. He leaned away, letting her lick her way down his neck as well. He made the cutest little moan, deep and quiet in his throat. She doubted it was audible, even to Stewart, who sat just a few feet away. She worked her way back up, and he did it again.

Delicious. A stupid grin peeled her lips away from her teeth.

"You've never stayed at a hotel in New York, have you?" she murmured as she pulled back.

"I've stayed at the Algonquin," he replied vaguely, his expression darkening just enough to tell her there was something she was missing.

"When did you need a hot—" She halted. Addison. When he'd left Addison. "Oh."

"Yeah," he said. "The cat helped."

"So," she said, clearing her throat. "The hotel is nice?"

"It's historic," he said. "The rooms are very… tiny."

"Tiny?"

"Yes, mostly there's just a bed. And walls."

"A bed."

"Yes," he said, "And walls."

He pressed into her, tilted her head with his thumb, and kissed her. She leaned back under the crush of his wave. The arm of the chair dug into her spine as he plunged and drank her down. The repeated chorus of "eeewws!" didn't seem to phase him as he licked and teased her with abandon, until the world faded into mushy swirly black dot things, the lights and voices and people and colors around them did a spinny thing, and every piece of that particular moment was just Derek. Derek in her personal space. Derek consuming her like fire over paper.

He pulled back millimeters, his lips resting in the space just beyond her own. His nose hovered parallel to hers. He shifted in front of her, but didn't pull back as he rolled his sunglasses back into the tangles of his hair. Brilliant blue splashed in front of her before he blinked, blinked, blinked to adjust, and then he fell into a hooded, desirous, heated stare that screamed sex, sex, sex, I want you. But most of all…

Mine.

"You've planned this," she managed to say as things re-settled. She swallowed as the tide receded, leaving her hollow and wanting and wishing that they didn't have an audience.

"Just a little," he whispered throatily.

He quirked a sexy grin at her and kissed her on the lips, not nearly as passionate as the one from just moments ago, but no less wanting, no less needing. When he pulled away, he leaned back against the chair and stretched, grinning like the Cheshire cat. He pulled the sunglasses loose from his hair and set them on the little glass side table beside the chair. She squeaked as he shifted, wrapped his arms more securely around her, and just… Was. She curled up against him and he just sat there, running his hand over her back absently, his chin resting somewhere just beyond her hairline. And she felt warm and safe and loved, and it was all just…

Perfect.

"Plans are good," she whispered into his chest, listening to the sounds of his breaths filling and emptying him. She bunched up a bit of his shirt between her fingers like security blanket and sighed. He made a really good chair. He made a really good fiancé, too.

Not that she'd had much experience with it yet.

"Wow, what is with you two?" Stewart roared, laughter rolling over his tone even though he wasn't actively chuckling. "You could scrape up the gooey mush radiating from you with a spoon. It's like you're newlyweds or something."

Everyone went silent, and the swell of conversation died a quick, violent death. Meredith blinked. Everyone. Everyone on the deck was looking at them.

"We're not," she stuttered.

Derek coughed. "No, definitely…"

"Not," Meredith finished for him.

"That would require a wedding," Derek observed.

"Which we have not had," Meredith assured everyone.

"Yet."

She gasped and pulled back. "Derek!" she said, slapping him lightly across the bicep.

He reddened. "Sorry. The whole rapid-fire thing. I--" he stuttered, only to finish lamely, "It slipped." He looked down at his hands.

Stewart stood up and gave a throaty, whooping shout. He waved his beer can to the air in a salute to the sky. "Hot damn, I was right!"

Ellen's chair scraped back as she stood like gravity had suddenly stopped working. Physics… Whatever. She straightened. Her eyes widened.

Meredith cringed. Oh, god. This was the part where everything came crashing down. This was the part where the family thing went up in smoke and she either got Derek disowned, or got dumped when Derek didn't want to get disowned. This was…

"Der, are you two engaged?" Ellen said.

Everyone. Was. Staring. Kathy had a quirky smile on her face. Sarah and Nancy just looked shocked. And Ellen. Meredith couldn't even begin to describe the look on Ellen's face. Even the kids. All staring. It was like she had a zit the size of Texas on her nose or something. She twisted her fingers even tighter against Derek's shirt. She was sure her nails were digging into him, but she couldn't stop herself. She felt his muscles clenching up into a block of rigid tension as she applied pressure.

"Well…" Derek said into the strange quiet. He cleared his throat as he ran his hands through his hair and tugged on it. His gaze ticked to Meredith. His expression just dripped with apology. He looked like his dog had been kicked.

"It's an easy question…" Stewart interjected, a dopey smile on his face.

Derek cleared his throat again. "Sort of. We're sort of engaged. Unless Meredith kills me for ruining it."

Ellen blinked. "Sort of?"

He shrugged, looking at Meredith helplessly before turning back to Ellen. "She wants me to ask her again."

"Again?" Ellen said.

Meredith sighed. This was not going well. This was not… She didn't want Ellen to know about the sex proposal. And she wanted to help Derek out, wanted to let him know she wasn't really that mad, just… stunned that they were apparently so transparent. Stunned, and terrified that everything was about to go poof on her. Except her mouth was doing this whole… not working thing. Her vocal cords were lodging a rebellion complete with demands for better hours and vacation days. Heat pushed into the skin on her cheeks, her throat, her chest, and the blush wafted so fiercely she had to force herself not to flap her hand in a useless, dumb-looking fan motion… thing.

She really didn't want to get Derek disowned. That was when her gut started to twist. Of course things would break now. She'd been stupid. She'd been happy. She couldn't be happy. She wasn't one of **those** people. The ones that had happiness wrapped around their fingers like a collection of expensive rings. She was like… One of those people who lived in a box under a bridge, waiting for the next bit of misfortune to wrap around her neck and strangle her.

"Yes," Derek said, his voice moderated and calm, but she could see the way his gaze kept jumping back and forth between Ellen and Meredith and Ellen and Meredith, and it wasn't good, and he was really, really not that calm. The faker. "The first time wasn't cheesy enough, apparently. I have to do the knee thing."

"But, you're…" Ellen said. "You proposed?"

He shrugged, his skin shivering a little with what she could only decide was nervousness. She doubted anyone else was close enough to see it, but it made her feel like she was sitting on top of a frightened rabbit. "It seemed right at the time," he said.

Ellen's gaze darted to Meredith. "And you said yes?"

Meredith swallowed. She tested things out and got a small squeak. She cleared her throat, trying to ignore the way her skin was burning under all the scrutiny, trying to ignore the way Derek was acting, like he expected things to go up in smoke as well, because this was his family, and he was supposed to be the liar who said everything would be fine, concussion-assisted anxiety or no.

"Unofficially," she managed. "I'm waiting for the knee thing."

Stewart laughed, apparently oblivious to all the tension riding rickshaw over the space between them. "Derek, man, you messed up your proposal again?"

Wait. "Again?" Meredith asked.

Stewart shrugged. "He flunked out on Addison, too."

Derek got redder, and the little tremors got replaced with a stiff, unyielding sort of tension. "You did?" she said.

"Well, I…" He shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat again. "Sort of… Maybe blurted things out."

Meredith frowned. "Not like…"

He looked at her, his gaze suddenly horror-filled "No, no, not like that. It was after a dentist appointment."

"You proposed to Addison after a dentist appointment?"

"It was supposed to be at dinner, and I had this great, cheesy plan about hiding the ring in her appetizer, but I didn't make it."

"Der, you're lucky you're too sexy to turn down," Sarah interjected.

Everyone laughed except her and Derek, who flinched. Literally flinched. Like someone had reached out and slapped him. Meredith wanted to curl up next to Derek and die. Just die.

"So, when are you two…" John asked, his voice trailing off as he substituted words with flailing hand gestures.

Derek looked at Meredith, eyes searching her expression as the stiffness shifted back to trembling. He was really… Really… Really nervous. And that made Meredith nervous, and she just wanted this moment to end. She winced, and that didn't seem to be what Derek was looking for. He frowned, cleared his throat again with a little uncomfortable cough. "We're not," he said. "Yet. We're working on the being engaged part. We're waiting to set a date."

Ellen blinked, blinked, blinked. Meredith frowned, waiting for the hell storm to start, the yelling, the disbelief, the vitriol. None of it came. A tear fell. And then another. "Der," Ellen said. She scooted out from behind the table, shoving past the chairs where Kathy and Sarah and John and the others all sat. She wormed her way out and walked over to them. Meredith looked up as Ellen came to a stop in front of her and Derek's chair. She found herself climbing off of Derek and standing, almost like she'd been commanded.

And then she found herself being hugged, and the scent of Ellen's earthy, flowery, rain-scented perfume ran down her throat like water. "Congratulations, dear," Ellen said happily, and Meredith, who had hung like some sort of stiff collection of bones in Ellen's grasp, slowly began to relax.

"You really don't mind?" she found herself asking weakly as she clutched at Ellen's cheerful sundress.

Ellen clucked her tongue. "What a silly question," she said.

And then the world exploded around her as everyone began to talk at once, asking questions, clapping Derek on the back as he stood up to join the fray in a stumbly, shuffling way. Kathy practically squealed with delight as she walked up and gave Meredith a bouncy hug. Even Nancy gave her a weak welcome to the family.

"Told you so, didn't I, Meredith," Stewart said as he came up to her, grinning like a fool.

Meredith rolled her eyes. "Yes, Stewart. You were right."

Stewart pulled another warm beer out of his carton. "Of course I was! Let's drink to celebrate!"

Meredith followed suit. A warm beer. It made her stomach curl, but… whatever. "Sure," she grinned. She scraped her index finger back along the tab. The can opened with a hiss. She took a sip and nearly gagged. "You being right is rare enough," she added with a curdled groan as the awful taste swept down her throat. She put the can on the table, grimacing.

Stewart clutched his unopened beer can to his chest. "Ouch, Meredith. You wound. Are you sure you want her, Derek? She's kind of snarly."

Derek grinned as he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "She's cute when she snarls."

"Even when it's at you?"

He kissed the small of her neck and held her, long and quiet and warm. "Particularly when it's at me," he rumbled into her neck. He stood there, hovering around her like some sort of cloak, quiet, silent, like he expected her to just… disappear on him. It was a display of affection sort of like the ones from that morning when he'd kept giving her random, very long, very mopey hugs. She thought this was one of those, so she let him take his time, taking the moments of the embrace to relish the closeness of him.

After a long stretch of silence, he inhaled, short and clipped and upset. "Sorry, I spilled, Mere," he said miserably into her shoulder.

She chuckled. "Well, we can try the secrecy thing again when we get back to Seattle. Because, as reluctant as I am to tell your mother how you proposed, I'm even more reluctant to announce it to the Seattle Grace Gossip Network," she said. She turned and tilted up on her toes to kiss him. "Fiancé," she purred.

"Wait," Stewart interjected. "How did he propose?"

Derek smiled weakly, ignoring Stewart as she pulled back. "Fiancé," he returned. He stared at her, stared, stared, stared, and finally he began to relax in her grip. "You're really not upset?"

She leaned up and kissed him. "Nah," she said. "Too sexy for my wrath, remember?"

The remaining tension from before spilled out of him like water through a sieve. His color returned. He let loose a small, vocalized, upset-sounding sigh, and with it, the last of the ugly crush of emotions fell away from him. It finally hit her. He hadn't been nervous that his family would take their engagement badly. He'd been nervous that she was going to break it off because he'd blabbed and she was a chicken.

Was she really that flighty?

She sighed.

Yes. She really was, she decided as she thought back to her reaction just that morning to his proposal.

She would have to work on that.

"We are kind of gooey, aren't we?" Meredith said, running her fingers in soothing circles over his chest. He sighed again, but the rush of air was a content one. He leaned into her.

He nodded. "It works for us, though."

She smiled. "It does."

His arms curled around her back. He pulled her up to him, and as she pressed into his torso and drank him down, she couldn't stop the weedy happy dandelion crap from getting her drunk all over again, just like it had before, when she'd realized all it took was a damned box of cereal to make him fall head over heels again.

"How did he propose?" Stewart repeated.

Derek snorted as he yanked away from her, and his eyes crinkled up with a smile. "Think about it, Stu," he said. He and Meredith burst out laughing at the flummoxed look on her future brother-in-law's face.

Yeah, Meredith decided. This fiancé thing was pretty okay.


	29. Chapter 27

**Author's Notes: So sorry this has taken so long! My NYC part has burgeoned accidentally into a 3-parter from 1. It's taking me forever to finish for some reason. Slow-going trying to figure out the layout of the part, a bad week at work, and a bad week at life... All powers combined make me a very slow writer, unfortunately. Next part should come sooner than this one did, it's over half done already.**

* * *

"Son of a bitch!" Meredith hissed as she slammed her foot down on the brakes of Sarah's silver Lexus RX.

Derek swallowed, head spinning as he put his hand out on the dash to steady himself. "Uh," he said. "You needed to turn right there…"

"I know!" she yelled. Meredith glared at him as she wheeled around and checked her blind spots, inching the car forward. "Nobody will fucking let me in. God damn it," she snarled before she let loose a string of obscenities colorful enough to make even him blush. Traffic crawled around them in a crush of cars, all inching along in a slow but constant flow. A steady chorus of horns and voices and exhaust and tires fell around them in a jittery, energetic verse. Buildings towered up around them in the epitome of urban jungle, creating a nice shade against the sun that was, though comforting, not quite dim enough for him to want to try taking his sunglasses off.

"Mere," he said, swallowing as she gunned the engine and zipped up a foot, only to slam on the brakes again when a taxi pulled out in front of her. She flipped the driver off, who returned her gesture in a blasé shrugging motion with not one but both hands, and then someone in the next car over, who had nothing to do with the incident, flipped everyone off just because. His eyes widened, and he couldn't help but let loose an amused cough despite the growing discomfort of the stop and start and stop and start. She was…

Really, really cute when she was pissed. Her lower lip jutted out, giving her an adorable pouting expression only made more adorable when she blew out a breath in frustration, sending several loose bangs flying into disarray. Her lithe, surgeon's fingers flexed around the steering wheel, squick, squick, squeaking against the leather guard so tightly her knuckles were turning a bloodless shell color. The car jerked as Meredith inched up and tried to scoot over into the lane she wanted again only to get denied as another taxi tore through.

"What the fuck! I'm signaling!" she screeched as she lifted both hands off the wheel to flail them helplessly in the air. She growled, actually growled. Despite her ability to snore loudly enough to make the walls vibrate, he was still amazed by the noise she was capable of projecting at unsuspecting victims.

"Mere, breathe," Derek said, trying desperately not to laugh.

"I am breathing!" she belted.

"Mere…"

"DOES ANYONE HERE KNOW HOW TO FUCKING DRIVE?" she shouted, panting, panting, panting. Her fingers were back on the steering wheel, squick, squick, squeaking as her gaze darted from mirror to mirror to mirror in a frantic, twitchy way that made it look almost like she was trying to score at whack-a-mole or something. There? There? There? No… THERE! She jammed on the accelerator again, only to brake a nanosecond later to avoid a pizza boy on a bicycle.

"Mere…"

"What!" she yelled. She turned to him, panting, her face a ruddy, cherry color.

"No one will let you in, Mere. You sort of have to just… Go."

"Just go…"

"Yes, go. Signal and go. You won't get hit."

"You expect me to just… shove this vehicle, which, might I add, is the size of a fucking boat, into the inch between this guy's bumper and the next?" she said, gesturing to the pair of taxies running alongside them at a mirrored pace to their own.

Derek looked down into the backseat of the rear taxi. A businessman sat yapping on his cell phone, laptop unfurled, briefcase torn open with papers sprawled everywhere in organized disarray. Derek let his gaze travel up to the front taxi. A woman stared out the window, gazing with an open mouth at the up, up, up of the building currently shading them. Derek grinned. Tourist. Very easy to pick out.

"Yes," he said, taking a short breath as he glanced back at Meredith. "Just go."

"This is your sister's car, you know."

"Just go, Mere. Trust me."

"Fine," she snapped. She signaled, and as soon as there was an inch gap for her to take advantage of, she slammed on the accelerator, the car groaned and jittered under the strain, and then everything swung forward as she steered to the right. Derek pinched his nose with his fingers and swallowed as everything spun up around him again in a kaleidoscope of color and noise.

"Hey, that worked," she said as the car settled into the slow pace of the right lane and they continued along.

"Yeah," Derek said, thunking his head against the window. "As adorable as you cursing and gesturing enough to be your own obscenity thesaurus is… People just don't care here, Mere. You have to decide where you're going and… just go."

"Just go," she repeated with a little nod. "Right. Do the follow through thing."

The rest of the way to the Algonquin was a little less traumatic, and by the time she was pulling up in front of the hotel, his stomach had settled again, and he felt a little less like he was going to lose everything onto Sarah's immaculate dashboard. She grinned triumphantly as the bellhop pulled open the passenger door for him.

"So," she said. "I park over there?" She pointed to the sign for the underground lot just behind them.

"Yes, but you have to drive around again since it's one way. Just park and meet me back in front of the hotel. We'll hail a cab."

She frowned. "But I just got the hang of driving."

"Yeah, well, parking is another thing entirely. Cabs will work much better for this, Mere. Trust me."

She shrugged. "You're the expert."

He wandered around the car to the trunk and pulled out all their bags, flashing Meredith a grin as he caught her staring at him in the rearview mirror. She looked so utterly tiny behind the steering wheel of the big Lexus, tiny and cute. And beautiful. And brave, so brave for even trying to drive in that mess. Driving in the city was sort of an art. And she was his. All his. As his hands left the handle of the very last bag, he found himself standing there, staring dumbly through the window of the trunk, burning with longing. He tried to swallow the heat away, blinking behind his sunglasses.

Meredith didn't seem to notice his scrutiny. She'd started fumbling with something in the cup holder and had bent over. His. This felt so… He felt a vague flash of rightness that strummed him like a guitar string from the tips of his toes to the space just behind his heart, where it paused and grew like a warm, solid thing. Maybe this would become a yearly routine, coming up to New York to see his family. He grinned stupidly as Meredith tapped the brakes and then inched forward. He stared, just stared, until she accelerated and disappeared around the corner.

The bellhop helped him lug everything from the curb to a luggage dolly. Derek walked into the dim, narrow foyer and proceeded to the concierge desk. Matilda's little cat bed was in a small hallway to the right, but, while hair-filled, the bed was not occupied.

He arranged to leave their bags in the coat closet until check-in time with the concierge, a tall, sticky, leggy blonde caked with makeup and elegant jewelry. She wore thick cat-eye glasses and her hair had been swept up into a twist with the ends hanging out in a waterfall of spill. He'd seen Addison wear it like that quite a few times, but hell if he knew what the style was called.

The concierge flashed white, perfect teeth at him as the bellhop lugged his bags back into the coatroom. Her name badge read Samantha. "Do you need any assistance with anything? Finding tickets to a show? Directions? Arranging transportation?" she asked, her voice polite and cheerful.

He smiled, said no, and turned to move back out onto the street once he had received luggage claim tags and tipped the bellhop. Derek stepped out onto the sidewalk and sighed as he glanced around. Meredith hadn't reappeared from the underground lot yet. He hoped she hadn't had too much trouble parking. It was a bit of a tight squeeze if he remembered right, and Sarah's SUV was a bit on the large side.

He hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets and closed his eyes. The street where the Algonquin was situated wasn't an overly busy one, but, still, it was fairly close to Times Square. The air was laden with the low-pitched rush of movement, cars, people, the breeze… all a hum that easily faded from awareness when you weren't listening, but was deafening if you focused on it. The noise throbbed like a breathing thing against the back of his skull. He inhaled, slow and steady. The scents of pavement, vehicle exhaust, oil, a hint of trash, and food like pretzels, stale beer, and hot dogs ran against his nostrils. He winced as a vehicle with a failing muffler crawled past and tore him from his daze.

For a moment, he just stared. He hadn't been to Manhattan since he'd fled from Addison to his new job at Seattle Grace. He hadn't been back, and he certainly hadn't looked back, either. Not once.

He recognized the space directly across the street as the spot where he'd sat in his car as the rain spattered down, sat and stared and wished that everything would just… stop. Stop being so loud and painful and bright. He'd sat in the dark in the car, wishing Addison and Mark would stop thrusting before his eyes, flickering in the glowing, meandering trails of water streaming down his windshield.

_I'm gonna go. You stay. I'll get my clothes in the morning._

He'd wandered in his car, driving up and down street after nameless street aimlessly as the windshield wipers blasted away, making the car rock back and forth with the force of their motion. He'd driven, driven, driven, ending up eventually in Times Square under the crush of lights and noise and flagrant billboards, only to realize that he would find no comfort there that night. Times Square had been where he went with Mark. They'd liked the scattering of hole-in-the-wall pubs. Mark had liked cruising for hapless tourists, and Times Square was a tourist magnet. Mark.

Derek had eventually moped with his car into the side streets, farther from the lights, and he'd happened across the hotel. The Algonquin. He'd not really paid attention before, had never really heard of it, but he'd been in a daze, and he'd sat staring at it from his car until the bright sign in front had blurred. Hotel. Needed to sleep. Needed to die. Needed to drink.

He'd eventually gotten out of the car, walked through the rain, and gone in to ask if they had a room. He hadn't known if it was a good hotel or a bad one, luxury or standard or dive. They'd looked at him oddly when he'd walked in with no reservation, but they'd checked. One room due to a last minute cancellation. They'd told him he was very lucky. He'd stared at the counter, unable to respond to that, feeling nauseated and ready to collapse. But he'd taken it. Taken the room, ordered up a whole bottle of scotch, and the rest of the night had been a blur. He didn't get drunk often, but when he did, he made it count. The next morning, he'd barely been able to move enough to call in sick. And then he'd made an honest man out of himself, and he had been. Sick.

He stared at the spot where he'd parked his car that night, thinking it might spark some darker, ugly piece of himself. Now, his eyes kept wandering to the place Meredith had pulled up to the curb, and the spot from that night... The spot. It just didn't seem so… Big. Anymore. There was no gloomy spark. Nothing momentous.

And the city smelled. It had never used to smell. Not to him. A brief flash of his trailer hit him, from the morning after he'd slept there for the first time. He'd walked out onto the deck and breathed in the cold, gray, wet air. His mood had been a dark one, but he would never forget that smell. Water. Earth. Mingled. He'd gone back inside and listened to the breeze and the drizzly rain for hours. Tap, tap, tap on his roof. Not a person, not a car for at least a mile in any direction, more possibly. It hadn't been quiet, sitting there in the trailer, listening to the rain thundering on his roof. But, yet, it had been. So very quiet.

A taxi drove past, slowing down as the driver eyeballed him. He sped up when Derek didn't show any interest, only to come to a piercing, screeching halt as someone darted across the street. Derek watched a woman in a skirt and stilettos plink, plink, plink across the street, glaring daggers at the cabbie.

The vague hint of lavender curled around him, and when a warm hand slid up under his sweater, under his shirt, he smiled, not even having to turn to know who it was. Meredith leaned up against his back and ran her palm along his stomach. "Hey," she said. "Where were you?"

He turned around and frowned. "I've been here the whole time," he said.

"No," she grinned. "I mean, where were you in your head? I must have said your name at least four times."

"Oh," he said. "Just thinking. It feels different."

"What feels different?"

"Being here."

"Oh. Different how?"

"I don't know," he replied. "I can't put my finger on it."

She stared at him seriously before leaning up onto her toes to kiss him deeply, sensuously. Her lips ran along the edges of his own, and then he was welcoming her into his mouth. A groan wound out of his chest and mingled with the squeaky, higher-pitched moan she often gifted him with. He clutched at the small of her back, pulling her up and closer, grinding. They pulled back, panting.

"So, what's first?" she said, grinning.

"First stop is only a couple blocks from here," he said. "We can just walk."

"What is it?" she asked.

He gave her what he hoped was a look that resembled smirky and seductive. "Not telling."

She raised an eyebrow. "Okay," she said warily, but she followed when he started moving down the street.

As they wandered closer to Times Square, the waves of people started breaking against them like water on rocks as he and Meredith fought the flow. Meredith grasped his hand as he pulled her through the crowd. "How the hell did you live here?" she said with amazed wonder as he dodged and weaved expertly through the crush of life.

He shrugged, gritting his teeth as a man in a business suit slammed into his shoulder, muttered something, and continued. "You get used to it," he said noncommittally as he searched the awnings of the stores for the name that he wanted.

Sarah had suggested this shop as **the** place to buy unique but gorgeous jewelry. She'd told him it would be perfect, especially given that he and Meredith were only staying a few blocks away, and had assured him that, unlike a lot of vendors in the diamond district, the owner was straight up, wouldn't try any of the classic diamond scams, and was just a genuinely friendly person to do business with. He'd made her show him at least four examples of things she'd bought there, and she'd been right. There was something just… charming about it all. He looked, looked, looked. It had to be somewhere on this block, assuming Sarah had given him the right street address…

His gaze stopped on a small shop with a red awning. There it was. Rings and Things. A corny name. He probably never would have given the place a second glance had Sarah not been so emphatic.

He darted for it, cutting diagonally across the sidewalk, pushing through a crowd of obvious tourists armed with cameras and wide stares, and pulled Meredith through the door before she had a chance to register the name on the awning. A hush fell over them as the little bell on the door rang and then left them in a calm, musty, cool silence.

The store was well lit and larger on the inside than it looked on the outside. Rows and rows of illuminated glass cases ran down the length of the store in artistic zig zags.

Meredith glanced around, a confused look dragging her mouth down into the cutest little frown as he pushed his sunglasses back and blinked, adjusting to the lighting, which was bright, but not too bad. "Derek, what's…" Her voice trailed away into silence.

He turned and smiled. "You never said if you wanted a ring or not."

"A ring?"

"Yes," he began patiently. "You know, for the engagement?"

"But…" she stuttered, and he began to wonder if he'd perhaps been too presumptuous. He hadn't wanted to pressure her into anything, but Sarah had been so adamant that this was the perfect store, and he'd figured, while they were there… Why not? He darted his gaze from Meredith to the glass cases lined with sparkling jewelry of all kinds and sizes and back to Meredith. She looked like she was going into shock, which he most certainly hadn't intended.

He pulled her close. "Do you want a ring, Mere?"

Her eyes widened. "I…"

A tall, thin, wrinkled man wearing black slacks and a yellow shirt that made him look sunny and welcoming came out from behind the register area where he'd been kneeling. He had a naturally cheerful, ruddy face, and when he smiled and brushed back the wisps of his swan-white hair against his balding scalp, Derek couldn't help but feel the urge to grin back.

"Hello, I'm Eamon," the man said, a slight, slight accent from… somewhere in the British Isles… lengthening his vowels and warping the words enough to make him sound even more charming. "Welcome. May I help you? An anniversary gift, perhaps, for your lovely lady?"

Derek looked at Meredith, who was still standing there gaping. Her lips slowly relaxed to form a vague, cute grin, as though she, too, had felt this man's infectious cheer. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it, closed it, and then looked at Derek, her eyes pleading for some sort of explanation. He frowned, trying to gauge what her mood was. Oh, he could tell she was freaking out. But… Was she freaking out about the ring? Freaking out about picking a ring? Freaking out about… Something else? And somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice said, anniversary. They would have anniversaries soon. Anniversaries with Meredith sounded like…

Bliss.

He cleared his throat, trying to shake the cobwebs of euphoric daydreaming away, put his hand on her shoulder, and squeezed it gently as he looked at the cheerful shopkeeper. "She's trying to decide if she wants an engagement ring."

Eamon grinned. "Everyone wants a ring," he said. He walked up to Meredith and pulled her left hand up to his chest level, inspecting it with a smooth, sensual touch that would have made Derek twist with jealously, had the man been, oh, about twenty-five years younger. "Beautiful. A ring would only make it more so. What general style were you thinking?"

"I don't…" Meredith swallowed. "I… There're styles? Rings have styles? I thought they were just… Round."

Derek watched as Eamon guided her to a stool across from one of the lit cabinets. A huge panel of ring after ring after ring, gold ones, silver ones, diamonds of all shapes and sizes, stared back from under the glass, gleaming, sparkling. Panel after panel of rings. There must have been at least one-hundred rings. And that was just in that particular case. More lined the glass panel one closer and one farther away from them in the zigzag, and Derek suspected more were being kept off display. Meredith sat meekly as Eamon gestured before him.

"Oh, yes," Eamon said, as if it were the most fascinating subject in the world. Derek folded his arms across his chest and leaned, crossing his legs at the ankles, settling in for a long wait, far enough away to give Meredith enough space, but close enough to remind her he was still there if she needed him. Space was probably good. He really didn't want to pressure her. And he certainly didn't want her doing this for him. That wasn't what this was about at all.

Eamon pulled out a tray of rings and pulled up a simple gold one with one tiny diamond set at the end. "You could get a classic solitaire. Oh, that would look lovely on your finger," he said as he held the ring up to her lithe, arcing finger. Derek had never noticed, but she looked like a piano player. He'd never seen her play, never seen her indicate she could, but… Piano player. She looked like one. He smiled. There was still a lot of her to unwrap, still a lot of things he didn't know. But he wasn't worried.

He watched her as she stared, her lips parting slightly, just enough to let a thin sheet of air slip through. Her eyes widened in an adorable look of amazement, and then narrowed into careful focus, like she did when she was about to clip something off during surgery. She took the little ring from Eamon and rolled it slightly between her thumb and her index finger, staring, breathing, contemplating for several long, longing moments before she handed it back.

Eamon put the little ring back on the countertop after a quick polish with one of his jewelry rags and pulled out another example, this time with three diamonds set in a row, the largest one in the middle. "There are also side stones like this, see?" he said, handing it to Meredith to inspect. She stared, quiet, unassuming.

Derek collapsed from his lean to his elbows on one of the glass panels. He cradled his face in his hands and just… watched, unable to stop himself from smiling. This was the woman he was going to have anniversaries with. And this store… He loved it already, just for the undivided, reverential attention Meredith was receiving.

A thump came from the back of the store. Eamon looked up for a moment and called, "Justin, just stack things, don't bowl with them."

"I'm not bowling!" came a mutter through the wall. Another thump, followed by a cascade of them provided his exclamation point. Derek searched the back wall of the store with his gaze and eventually noticed a little swing-door partially concealed by shelving.

Eamon looked back to Meredith and winked, his green eyes sparkling. "I think Justin lives in denial. Don't you? Anyway, let's see." Meredith giggled. He resumed his focus on the task at hand and began to cycle through more examples. "You can get gold, white-gold, you can get platinum, or something else like silver," he explained, pulling out gleaming rings from each of the metal categories he'd mentioned. Meredith slowly fingered each one, biting her lip in that way she did when she focused really hard on something. Her bangs fell down over her forehead as she leaned.

Eamon pulled out more rings. "Do you want a diamond? Or cubic zirconia, perhaps, if you feel uncomfortable wearing something so expensive? Some young ladies are afraid they'll lose a diamond. If you decide on a diamond, of course, there are different colors. And, naturally, there are different cuts. There are many, many choices, as you can see, now, I'm certain."

Derek smiled, entranced as Meredith stared at the options laid out in front of her on the table. She pawed lightly at the glass, pondering, thinking. Her gaze settled on a little platinum solitaire Eamon had pulled out to demonstrate the color of the metal. It was a pretty ring. The diamond was small, unpretentious, a round brilliant cut, and… Beautiful. Even when it was sitting out of the display lights to the side.

And, as he watched Meredith's face light up with amazement when her gaze stayed on it, he could tell. She didn't seem to know it yet, but he could tell, just from the way her eyes flared, the way her lips curled in the vaguest smile, the slight twitch of the finger nearest to it… That was the moment he was certain he'd been right. She wanted a ring. He'd wondered. She wasn't much of a jewelry person. But that moment cemented it.

"Diamonds come in colors?" Meredith asked, her voice quiet. Her nostrils flared, and her breaths were quiet and shallow. She was overwhelmed, but Derek resisted the urge to butt in and hug her.

"Oh, yes," said Eamon. "What size ring do you wear?"

"Size?"

"Your finger size."

Meredith frowned. "I don't know… I've always just bought what fits off the display case."

Eamon clucked his tongue. "All right," he said with a smile. "I can see this will be a session for the books. One moment while I get my tools."

"Tools?" Meredith said. "You need tools for selling a ring?"

"To size your finger, examine settings, yes," Eamon explained patiently. "Just a second." He walked to the back of the store and started rummaging through a bin, glancing up at them every few moments or so.

Meredith turned to Derek, eyes flaring with… Panic. Derek swallowed. He'd been so sure earlier that she was… No, he was sure. But she was Meredith. Of course she wouldn't just… let herself have something like this.

"Derek…" she said, a small, tiny voice that made him want to wrap her up in his arms.

"What?"

"What's going on?"

"Well," he said, grinning as he remembered her brief, unadulterated look of delight over the little platinum ring. "It looks like you're picking out a ring."

"But… But…"

He finally gave in and moved closer to her, picked her hands up and gently caressed her knuckles. Eamon was right. She would look… exquisite with a diamond perched on her finger. Not that she didn't look exquisite already, but…

"Do you want a ring, Mere?" he asked quietly. As much as he knew she wanted one, she still didn't. And there was no way in hell he was going to make a mess of this. "If you don't want a ring, we can leave. This wasn't to pressure you."

Her gaze darted to the case underneath her fingertips. She ran her hand over the glass, drifting her touch across choice after choice. She swallowed. "I don't know."

"Well, then why don't you see if there's anything you like," he said. "And if there is, you can get it, and if there isn't, we'll continue on with our tour."

"I don't have to get anything?" she said.

"We don't even have to stay here if you don't want to, Mere."

Eamon cleared his throat as he returned with a small tool bag and a circular, metal karabiner holding examples of each ring size. "All right, I'm ready," he said jovially as he resumed his seat behind the case where Meredith sat. "Are you ready?"

Meredith looked between Eamon and Derek, the most painful, helpless look on her face. Derek smiled, trying to ignore the bite of heartache he felt at her uncertainty. "Up to you, Mere," he said, his voice low and soothing. He watched a string of emotions march across her face. She was embarrassed, and pleased, and scared, and longing, and… It was the oddest set of dichotomies he'd ever seen.

He briefly flashed back to the look on he face when he'd bought her the scrub cap. Just a little gift, barely a dent worthy of notice on his credit card. And she'd acted like it was the most special thing anyone had ever given her. Just a little scrub cap.

A biting sliver of anger ran him through like a sword, and when he thought about it, the wound deepened into a larger well of pain. She wasn't used to gifts. That much was clear from the sheer hesitancy on her face, the way she delighted over the smallest things, but lorded over them with guilt at having received them. It was adorable, and it made him sad all at once.

He'd never really gotten a chance to romance her. Their relationship had been… Very… They just hadn't really done much gift giving. The starts and stops had ruined the flow from casual to passionate, long-lasting love. There'd been no romance period. Just the jump from flirty to done deal, broken up by a bunch of longing, look but don't touch moments that he'd failed dismally at.

"Okay," she finally said, tearing him back from his mental tangent. He grinned at her.

"Do you have a price range I should be aware of?" Eamon asked.

Meredith halted mid breath, and Derek tried not to visibly wince. If there was one thing that was going to spook her off of it, that was it. "Oh," she stuttered. "Um…"

"No," Derek said, interrupting before she could stutter too much. "Whatever she wants."

She snapped her head around to look at him again. "Derek…" she hissed.

"Well, all right then," Eamon said with a grin.

"But, Derek," Meredith said again, her teeth gritted.

Derek frowned. "Can we have just a minute?" he said, directing his words toward Eamon.

"Certainly," Eamon replied, and the old man moved off to polish some items in a nearby case.

Derek pulled Meredith's hand up to his lips and kissed it. "Meredith," he said, kissing her index finger. "Whatever." Middle. "You want." Ring finger. "Is fine." Pinky.

Her fingers flexed, and he pulled her into a tight embrace. "You're sure?" she said, her words brushing softly against the light weave of his sweater. He ran a hand through her hair and rocked her. She swayed in the stool where she sat, utterly pliant, and it made him sad how frail she was acting when he knew how strong she really was.

"This is for you, Mere," he said. "I'm sure."

"But…"

"Meredith," he said, interrupting her. He ran a hand down her back and just swayed as he spoke softly in her ear. "You're the greatest thing that's ever happened to me in my life. I mean it. If you want a ring, you can have a ring. Whatever ring you want. Whatever setting you want. Whatever metal you want. Whatever gem or gems you want. Whatever cut you want. All you should care about is whether it makes you happy to wear it. And, Meredith, if you don't want a ring? That's okay, too. I just want you to have what you want…"

"I..."

"No pressure, Meredith," he said, kissing the top of her head as his whole body started to ache for her. Ache over the fact that she was still so uncertain. "Do you want to go do something else?"

"I..." she said, swallowing. She pulled away from him to look at the glittering rings in the case again. She ran her fingers up and down the edges, up and down, up and down in an almost longing, petting motion. She wanted one. He bit his lip, watching her, tensing, unwilling to shove her into something she didn't think she was ready for. She'd said yes. He would wait however long she wanted. She'd said yes.

And that meant more to him than anything.

She stared absently at the case, looked back up at him. He tried to keep his expression neutral. Tried. Tried. Tried. Was pretty sure he'd failed. He wanted her. He wanted her forever. It was hard to make that go away.

She turned back to the ring case.

"Ten," she said, stopping to clear her throat with an awkward, panty breath. "Ten minutes."

"All right then," he said, low and soothing. He backed away from her, giving her space again, resumed his lean several feet away, and said, "We're ready."

Eamon smiled, Derek resettled back into his lean a few paces away, and Meredith watched as ring after ring was paraded before her in a sparkling march.


	30. Chapter 28

Three hours later, Meredith and Derek left the little shop. Meredith held the tiny bag in her hands, and, through the plastic, tightly clutched her fist around the small, velveteen, hinged box that sheltered her new ring. "By the way," Derek said, his hand against the small of her back as he guided her out the door, "Don't buy any jewelry in the diamond district unless you get a good referral. For future reference. And thus ends our first stop on the Meredith does Manhattan tour, which I'm hoping will become X-rated before the end of the night. Hotel room and everything. Shame to pass that up."

The words barely registered. She clenched her fingers around the tiny little box. Ring. Ring. Ring. She'd gotten a ring! And it was in the little box in her hand. And it was… It was…

Perfect.

They walked through the crush of people, getting bumped and jostled. Ring. Her fingers tightened, and she darted to the side of the walk, into a little alcove in the shade, away from the flow of moving bodies.

Biting her lip, she pushed the bag at him. His fingers brushed hers, and he looked at her with a questioning expression as his larger hand eclipsed her smaller one. "A prop to help you with the knee thing," she explained. Her breath caught when she fell into his gaze. She smiled. "Plus, you're less likely to get mugged."

He chuckled. "Okay," he said, his voice low and soothing, yet reverential and desirous all at once. "But I pity the mugger that falls for your cute and tiny routine. He'd probably limp away minus a limb, and no purse to show for it." He pulled the ring box out of the bag and stuffed it into his jeans pocket. It made a little bulge, just under the hem of his sweater, but it was otherwise hidden from sight. She stared for a moment, marveling at it. The ring. A ring. She had a ring. And it was perfect.

Derek cleared his throat. "Which package are you looking at?" he said, a smirk slanting his lips into a naughty expression.

She ignored his innuendo. If she didn't ignore it, she would probably end up jumping him right there. Manhattan or no, that would probably not be considered appropriate. She'd already seen at least one Girl Scout tour group. So, no. Definitely not appropriate. Meredith does Manhattan was only allowed to hedge into adult territory during the finale. Where there would be decidedly no Girl Scouts, people with cameras, or anything else that would make something X-rated a bit more kinky than even she intended.

She licked her lips and shook her head, forcing her gaze up. She hopped a little on her feet as a sudden zing of exhilaration ran up her spine. "I got a ring," she stated proudly.

His smirk changed into something genuine, something loving, not arrogant, and it made her want to melt inside. Hell, she was already melting. Melting, melted, puddle Meredith.

"You did," he replied, his voice low and husky as he slipped into her personal space, and his body heat collided with her own. She wrapped her arms around him, ignoring the claps of feet striking pavement all around them, the hustle, the groan of cars motoring past.

"You got me a ring," she corrected, breathing into the soft, fuzzy weave of his dark blue sweater. The temperature around them was perfect and balmy, the kind that let you go outside without a jacket, but was just right for an extra layer to be worn without feeling uncomfortable. And the blue… Mmm. Blue was definitely his color. Dark but vibrant blue. It made his eyes seem almost… electric. His eyes…

"Hey," she said, trying to keep her elation in check. "You can see?"

He winced and frowned. "It's shady here," he replied. His expression softened back into a smile as he watched her.

"Oh." Said elation shrunk, only to wind back up again in a slow, glorious buildup as he stood there, arms wrapped around her, warm, perfect, smelling clean and sharp like his aftershave, a welcome relief from the assault of some of the city's less attractive odors. She smiled into his sweater, ran her fingers up and down his chest.

"Thank you," she whispered when she felt like she would explode with the buzz that was slowly overwhelming her. "For the ring."

"Mmm-hmmm," he mumbled into the hair over her ear as he leaned down. His cheek brushed the side of her face as he pressed his lips onto the space just above her ear. His fingers snaked through the loose bits of her hair, which hung half in a ponytail, half free falling down her back.

The realness of the situation didn't hit her, really. Rather, it moved in like a changing season. Gradual. It started in the back of her head like a whisper at first, subtle fingers slipping through her thoughts in a caress as soft as Derek's hands in her hair. The whisper coalesced into something more solid, more substantial. Murmured words in a poetry reading, growing in volume, growing, growing until it was an endless, pounding thing. Everything blossomed. She smiled as she clutched at him. Really smiled. And damned if she could shut it off.

"I'm really happy," she observed. The tiny voice, the one that would have said, what's wrong with me? It was strangely silent. "Really, really."

The flat of his palm ran down the curve of her spine. "It's allowed, Meredith," he assured her. "You're allowed."

She sighed. When Derek had pulled her into the shop, she hadn't really gotten it at first. She'd seen the rows and rows of sparkly things, sparkly, expensive things, and had blankly thought… Jewelry. There's jewelry here. And then came… why? Her mind had been utterly silent and noncontributory as the bits of clues floated around like pieces in a sprawling, unsolved jigsaw puzzle. It really shouldn't have been that complicated. But…

She'd sat there as Eamon had brought out ring after ring after ring to the countertop. Derek had hovered back a few panels away, almost as if he were afraid having him loitering over her shoulder might spook her out of letting him buy her something so… huge. But, really, she hadn't needed Derek to spook her. She'd spooked herself.

She'd sat there thinking, crap, there's thousands of dollars of stuff on this table. A scrub cap was one thing. A ring that would very possibly take an actual chunk out of his salary depending how extravagant she got… That was a whole different thing. A whole different realm. A whole different freaking dimension of seriousness. And what had floored her even more was that he hadn't even set a price range. She had been sure that there were things in that store that could really, really hurt him in the financial department, no matter how much of a god he was in the surgical arena, no matter how much his hands were worth to Seattle Grace. Yet he hadn't even flinched, hadn't tried to steer her choice, hadn't… Done anything to stop or encourage her either way. It had all been on her. And that…

That had been plenty enough to spook the hell out of her.

She'd swallowed. The rings… At first she'd run her brain around in circles thinking, holy freaking crap, they're expensive, and she'd just been given free reign in her first judicious act as queen to pick whichever one she wanted. Her first impulse had been to swing to the other end of the spectrum and shy away from the ones with ridiculous price tags. And then she'd run her brain around in circles thinking if she picked something inexpensive Derek might get his feelings hurt, some sort of… male surgeony ego thing that she didn't really understand, couldn't even pretend to understand. He might feel less arrr-I-am-the-provider if she stuck to something simple and understated. Not that she'd thought he didn't value her independence. She was certain he did, which had been evidenced just by the fact that he had been standing back and not saying a freaking word to sway her decision. But he did have an I'll-save-you streak. And who knew how that would affect the whole buying a ring thing?

That, of course, had been preceded, accompanied, and followed by a wearying chorus of annoying, do I really deserve this? Remnants of a person she'd decided only the day before was dead, dying, or at least stuffed into a closet and shut up with a ball gag. Not quite so dead, dying, or stuffed-and-shut-up then. Sparkly, expensive things had made ugly, doubting Meredith zombies rise left and right. Until the chorus had been a moaning army of should I, should I, should I really? And she'd sat at the table, almost ready to cry over the uncertainty of it all.

But then she'd caught Derek watching her reverently out of the corner of her eye as she tore through choice after choice with shaking, unsteady hands. The gaze on Derek's face had been… unreal. He'd been alight that kind of gleeful anticipation of a kid opening the biggest box under the tree at Christmas, well, except he was maybe awfully lusty for undoing the wrapping paper, but that was a whole different metaphor, and damn it, she had had a point.

Right.

Her breath had caught. He had been that excited over watching her destroy his financial portfolio? That…

Dreams can change. I love you, and I want you.

What do you want, Mere? If I can give it to you, I'll give it.

I just want you to have what you want… 

Things he'd said. Beautiful things. She'd turned back to the pile of rings, biting back a lump in her throat. For a long, long set of moments, she'd just stared, let the circling wagons of her thoughts slow down, creak to a halt, and then she'd embraced the mental silence for a moment.

What did she want?

And, finally, after what had seemed like the longest deliberation of her life, she'd stopped thinking about how expensive or inexpensive things were, or what Derek would think, or whether she deserved it. What did she want? What felt right? Derek wanted her to have what she wanted. And his gift would be in the giving, a gift she would be denying him if she were to in any way shortchange herself. It had been written plainly in the delight on his face at watching her decide. It. Desire for her to be happy.

So, what did she want?

She wanted the ring, the guy, the whole… normal… relationship thing. She wanted the ring.

That had been when things had changed. When it had stopped being about everything else, and only about what ring she thought was prettiest, what ring she thought suited her personality the best. And Derek had watched.

Still delighted.

She'd ended up picking a very simple platinum ring without embellishment in the band. The tinyish diamond that crowned it, well, tiny compared to some of the ridiculous mounds of shiny Eamon had pulled out, had made her breath stop when it caught the light. It was cut… squarish. Eamon had called it a princess cut, which she had found ironic. Queen of England and all. It had been love at first sight when Eamon had pulled the ring out from some nook behind one of his counters. It hadn't even been out for display. She had almost been ready to pick a roundish diamond set on a similar platinum band before she'd seen it. But the square one…

She just liked it.

Eamon had explained the technicalities. Colorless, 1.25 carats, very very slightly imperfect, whatever that meant. He'd gone on to smile and say it was his favorite ring in the whole store, but that he rarely pulled it out to show anyone, which probably meant… Ouch. On the price tag, anyway. But… But… It was perfect. Eamon had gone on to pull out some appraisal thingy. He'd handed the paper to Derek, and Derek had seemed to be pleased with whatever was written there… So…

She had picked her ring.

There was no engraving on the ring. Eamon had asked if she wanted something inscribed, but she'd shook her head. It'd seemed odd, to her, to try and define something so terrifyingly big in words that would fit on something so tiny. Putting it succinctly would just make it sound cheesy. And she couldn't very well have on her ring band, "It just was." That seemed worse than cheesy. It. This thing with Derek. No, she'd decided after some more careful thought. Not something that would fit on a ring. Plus, she wasn't really much of an artist as far as words went. All arguments that led to the ultimate decision of no words at all.

She finally blinked back into the bustling world around her and found herself just standing there, breathing against him. A few seconds of bliss gave way to the awareness that he was hovering, and that he had been hovering for a long time while she wandered off into a million thoughts. His warmth against her was invigorating. The way he clutched at her like she was his life raft, that was…

"You're okay, right?" she asked.

"Yeah," he murmured. "More than."

She swallowed. "Still working through…"

He nodded. "Yeah. Sometimes. Sorry."

"Don't be. I wish I could make a coat out of you."

He snorted. "Oh, now you want to skin me?"

"I think that would sort of ruin the effect," she whispered. "So, what's next?"

"You don't have anything particular you want to see?"

She paused, frowning. Did she? She ran her hands up and down his arms, petting as she thought. "We're close to Times Square, right?"

"Yeah, we could walk."

"Let's do that first."

He grinned. "All right." He glanced around, quickly gaining his bearings as he flipped his sunglasses down over his face from where they'd been resting in his hair. He pointed, and then they were off.

She grasped his hand, and as they darted forward though the crowds, she couldn't help but laugh. It was almost like some sort of twisted game. Dodge-a-pedestrian. So many people. Everywhere.

Frankly, she just didn't get it. Not the fact that there were people everywhere, but the fact that Derek had somehow endured this crazy, huge mess of population for thirty-eight years of his life. Derek wasn't… Derek liked fishing by his lake in the quiet. He liked camping and being away from people. He liked… peace. He was a people person, but he didn't like huge gatherings. He was more into intimate encounters, more into the one-on-one, or just smaller-scaled, closer things. He was… sweet, unrushed, easygoing... And that just didn't seem to jibe with all the pushing and shoving and noise and pulse of… go, go, go that thrummed in the air like the chest-melting bass-beat of a club's dance track.

A body slammed into her and kept on walking.

This was definitely not peaceful.

Then again, he was a surgeon. He used to ride a motorcycle. He was obviously an adrenaline junky. Just like she was. Thrills were important. And Manhattan… It was hard not to look up and stare and gape at all the lights and movement. Excitement filtered into every one of her pores, and all she was doing was walking down the street. The city definitely had an abundance of thrill.

"Okay, stop," he said as they hit the corner of 44th and Broadway. He squeezed her shoulders, and she plowed to a halt with a squeak of surprise at his sudden cease of movement. People broke apart around them in a skilled redirection, as if they were used to stupid tourists stopping and gawking in the middle of everything all the time.

"What?" she said.

"Shhh, I'm playing tour guide. Come here," he said, guiding her closer to him so that she stood spooned against him, his front flat against her back. He wrapped his arms low around her waist.

"A naughty tour guide?" she said.

"Shhh," he said. "Close your eyes."

She frowned, wondering what the hell he was doing, but she did it anyway, half expecting him to play some sort of flirty joke on her, maybe feel her up in public. It would be just her luck, too, if Google decided to pick that moment to snapshot the newest update for its Manhattan satellite maps. Whoops, there's Meredith Grey, getting felt up by her hot fiancé in Times Square. Feast your eyes on the pile of lust—

"Hear that?" he said.

"Hear what?"

"Listen," he said, his voice a low, soothing rumble against her ear.

And so she did. At first it was a jumble, just a jumble. Noise. Jarring, pelting noise that flew up around her ears and made it hard to hear herself think. And then, as she listened more, deeper, harder, the noise began to peel apart into separate sounds. People, voices crept all around her like… like she was in some sort of auditorium, and the whispers bounced off the walls and grew and grew. A shout here and there shook things up. Whistles. Laughter. Shrieks. Chatting. People hailing cabs, gabbing on their cell phones. Footsteps, like the magnified clamor of ants, clapped around her across the pavement. Clicks of stilettos, softer pats of flat feet, even the tap-tap-tap of a cane. Police sirens, halted after a short chirp-chirp-chirp, flared like staccato accents, only sometimes blaring into a full out wail. Air rushed against her in a low whir through the wind tunnel of the high buildings. Traffic. Moans of cars and the blast of trucks and other big things with wheels. Music. A man played a clarinet for coins on the street, his instrument case open at his feet. People had their iPods turned up too loud, and songs bled from their headphones. Obnoxious people with their stereos cranked tore through the intersection with their windows down, compliments of the nice weather.

It all came down to people. Everywhere. And nobody was the same.

"That's Manhattan," Derek said after a moment, as if he'd heard her arrive at her conclusion.

She turned to grin at him, only to find him staring at the intersection with the oddest look on his face. "What's with the frown?" she asked. "And, damn, you're pretty good at this, so far. I feel like I should be paying you."

He shook his head. "I don't… know. I just expected to be more… homesick."

"Homesick?"

He shrugged. "For here. Standing here again after so long. I thought it would… Mean more."

"You miss Seattle, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Maybe you just have a new home, then."

"Maybe," he replied noncommittally as he stared off into space, running his hands along her shoulders absently as he stood there. He sighed lightly. The look on his face was… Unreadable. His lips curled in the vague hint of a smile, but it was a subdued one. Unhappy, ironic, but… Not. Happy, but… Not. The rest of his face was a whole big mess of something she couldn't put her finger on, and, in a feeling of frustration she'd become painfully used to, she wished the sunglasses would just… Go away. Go away into the abyss of… not on Derek's face.

"What," she began, and then she bit her lip and stopped.

He twitched and turned to her, the curious expression melting away in to one she knew a lot better. The Meredith-is-my-world face. She liked that one. "Did you say something?" he said.

She opened her mouth to reply, but her stomach rumbled an answer for her. For the briefest moment, she flinched, looked down, and hugged her stomach, only to realize… nobody had heard it. What would have been a growling shout regarding the need for imminent food consumption had been reduced to something almost silent. The rush of the noise really started to hit her then. Another police siren chirped. A horn honked. Voices, people, everywhere. How had Derek done it?

Her stomach did the noisy-but-not growl thing again, shaking her out of the brief, deafening wall of sound, enough to think again. She pulled up her wrist to glance at her watch. It was almost two already.

"I'm suddenly realizing I'm extremely hungry," she said. "Can we grab some lunch, maybe? I think my stomach might start cannibalizing itself soon."

He laughed. "Yeah, but not here."

"Not here?"

"Times Square is a tourist trap. Mark and I used to come here all the time for shitty beer, but, really…" His voice trailed away as he got lost in some distant place again. He cleared his throat, shook his head. "Never mind. Let's hail a cab."

She watched him for a moment, watched him frown and collect himself. "What did you and Mark used to do?"

He gave her a weak smile. "Well, I usually just sat at the bar and collected all the phone numbers he picked up. He liked to see how many hot tourists he could swindle into a one-night stand."

She snorted. "Yeah, that sounds like Mark."

"It's looking back on things like that that I think I really should have seen it coming…"

"Derek…" she said, low-pitched, worried at the way his voice twisted. She knew he still had trouble with it. Sometimes. Knew. And now she'd seen why, seen how awfully the whole mess had affected him firsthand in the direct aftermath. She wondered if, in addition to the wounds being fresh again because of where they were standing, they were fresh again because of the week of replay he'd been forced to experience. She didn't know. She wrapped her arms tightly around him.

He cleared his throat, blinking frantically enough that she could see the movement behind his sunglasses. "Sometimes, I miss him. Other times, I just hate him even more," he said, and then he turned toward the street, slipping out of her grasp. He swallowed, visibly forcing it all away. His fingers clenched around her hand. He breathed.

"So, what are you in the mood for?" he managed after a moment, cheerful, but his voice was still a little... Off.

She wrapped him up again in the warmest grasp she could manage, snuggling up against his back, tilted up onto her toes, and kissed his neck. He turned around at the touch, and it quickly became mouth-to-mouth. The fun kind. With tongue.

That drew the chuckle she wanted when he pulled away. "That's later, Meredith," he said, grinning, really grinning. The earlier upset was gone, had dripped out of him like water through a sieve. "I meant food."

"Italian?"

"I have dinner reservations at an Italian place. Do you want to double up, or do you have a second choice?"

"Oooh," she said, purring as she hugged him closer. "Reservations?"

"Yeah. It's a little place that opened up since I left. I heard it was good. So… Preferences?"

"Surprise me," she said.

He grinned. "All right."

He turned and started to raise his hand, intent on hailing a cab, but she felt the weird, time-stopping thing. The noise swelled up around her again in a wall of cacophony. She breathed. Smells were everywhere. Exhaust. Food. City things. They were standing in Times Square as a couple. A real, getting married someday, freaking-expensive-ring-tucked-away-in-his-pocket couple. It seemed wrong to just… slip away. Slip away in a cab, off into the distant wherever, whatever.

She reached forward and pulled on his arm just as he reached the apex of his cab hail. He collapsed down out of the hail as she curled her fingers around his hand and pulled him back into the middle of the sidewalk, much to the likely chagrin of everyone who had to start spilling around them again just to get by. The crowd parted skillfully.

"Wait," she said, suddenly breathless.

He frowned. "What?"

"We have to do the normal thing. I've never done it. We have to."

"The what thing?"

She glanced around. "We don't have a camera. We're crappy tourists, Derek."

"I'm not technically a tourist, Mere."

"Whatever. I'll just use my phone. Did you know my phone takes pictures?"

"Uhhh…"

Time stopped as she whirled around on her feet, looking, looking, finding. A panhandler or two. Men in business suits in a hurry. People on cell phones. Policemen. Kids under the pull of their parents. Women clicking past in pumps that were far too tall and spiky to be anything but fashionable devices of masochistic torture. Who could take a picture… Everyone looked mean, like they would bite her head off if she asked.

"Excuse me," she said, belting across the writhing crowd when her eyes fell on the perfect target, someone very unlikely to run off with her phone as a consolation prize, someone unlikely to curse at Meredith for interrupting her precious time.

The Girl Scout leader woman looked up from the crowd of high-school-aged girls all hovering around her in a girly cluster. It was the Girl Scout troop she'd seen earlier, actually. They weren't in uniform, but they had on enough of the various Girl Scouty apparel to make it obvious. The leader lady wore her hair tucked under a green bandana with the Girl Scout symbol slathered all across it like strange, misshapen polka-dots. And she had patches on her vest. Lots and lots of… patches. The girls had them too. Patches. Everywhere. Meredith cringed, remembering her high school years. She never would have been caught dead anywhere near a Girl Scout.

"Would you mind taking a picture or two?" Meredith said politely as she approached the frazzled-looking leader lady.

"Sure, if you trade with me," the woman said in a kind, mothering voice. She was tall and thin, with curly brown hair down to her shoulders and small, round glasses. Her face was slightly wrinkled, enough to indicate she was in her late forties or early fifties. But she looked elegant, even despite the bandana, which was decidedly not elegant. And… Kind. She looked like a classic… well… A down-to-earth mom. Really.

Meredith laughed and handed the woman her phone. "Sure, I can do that," Meredith said.

She walked back to Derek, who was staring at her with an amused grin that ripped across his face like a flashing, neon sign that screamed happy, happy, happy, I am. "That was normal?" he said as she wrapped her arm around his waist, he wrapped his arm over her shoulder, they wheeled around so they had Broadway sprawling into the distance behind them, and posed.

"Oh, shut up," she said between clenched teeth as she smiled for the phone camera. Girl Scout leader woman popped off a few shots. "We're making memories. And if you're one of those people who's photogenic in everything, which I suspect you are, I might have to hurt you when I see how these turn out."

He burst out laughing just after leader lady took the last shot. "Meredith, I really doubt you could take a bad picture either," he said. "This shouldn't be news to you. You're hot, Mere."

She blushed as she went to trade with leader lady. They had a real camera. Girl Scouts were prepared. She glanced at Derek as he walked through the crowd of Girl Scouts to her side. While the girls figured out how they wanted to pose, Derek wrapped himself around her, his arms going around her waist as he looked over her shoulder. "Do you even know how to use a camera? You don't seem… like a picture person," he said, his voice playful, arrogant, and damned annoying.

She flipped open the lens thing and pointed the camera. "It can't be that hard. You just hit the little take-a-picture button thing, don't you?" She peered through the window thing and was greeted with only half of the troop. Jeez, there were a lot of them. "Crap, some of them got cut off. How do you zoom this thing out?"

"Hit the minus sign on that swing button," he said in her ear, low and luscious, and it was very much not helping her focus, either the camera or her brain. But he was right. Damned men and their gadget things. She brought the full extent of Girl Scouty troopness into the view and snapped off a few shots.

"Okay, now I'm done," Meredith said as she handed the leader lady's camera back to her. Her stomach rumbled again. "Feed me, Derek."

Derek laughed as the army of Girl Scouts started moving down Broadway, off to whatever their next stop was in their own tour. "Do you even know how to get those pictures back off your phone?" Derek asked. "I've never seen you use it as a camera."

"I very possibly know how, yes!" she said, indignant. The truth was, she really didn't have a clue. She was sure she could figure it out, though. She was a freaking surgeon. How hard could it be?

He just smiled in a quirky, know-it-all smile that said he knew that she was lying through her teeth. "We'll figure it out later," he said. "Gimme that."

She handed him her phone, and in an expert, sweeping motion, he flipped it back open, pointed it at her just inches from her face, and she heard the fake-shutter sound going off.

"Hey!" she said. "I didn't even get a chance to smile."

"You're gorgeous anyway."

"Liar. Do it again."

"Fine," he said as he brought the phone up, shifted it left and right as he stared through the view screen, and finally settled on an angle. "Ready?"

"Yes," she said through clenched, smiling teeth. She stood waiting, waiting, waiting. The seconds ticked past one by one until her mouth started to hurt. No fake-shutter clicky thing happened. He just stood there, staring at her seriously.

"You're sure?" he finally asked.

"Yeah."

"Positive?"

"Yes, Derek."

"I just want to make sure this time. You're certain?"

She lost the smile thing and snorted with laughter. "Ass," she said as she glared.

He flashed a picture just then as she was trying to come up with a more descriptive retort. "Hey!" she snarled.

He laughed. "You're cute when you're angry. I couldn't resist."

"Damn it, give me that," she said, extending her hand out to him.

He dropped her phone onto her waiting palm. "See how you like it," she said as she snapped off another shot an inch from his nose.

"I look good at any angle," he deadpanned.

"Ass," she repeated.

"You love me, though," he said.

"I do," she replied. "I really, really do."

"I love you, too," he said.

They kissed, lunging up against each other. The world around them fell away, and Manhattan was suddenly gone in the wake of him against her. His fingers crawled down her spine. His breathing was like a wave in her ears, blotting out everything. He tasted… Good. Really good. He was warm, and rough, and… Oh. Ooh. Her thoughts peeled away from her brain and disappeared into the dark, fuzzy void somewhere in the background with the world. She heard a shutter-click off to the side, sharp, and the clarity of it against the mushy woozy swirly… things, was like a stabbing knife. She pulled away in a slow, drugged motion, and looked up to see him holding his own flip-phone out at arm's length.

"Hey," she whispered, dazed as the shutter went off again.

"My pictures are better," he said.

"Ass," she said, laughing as she slowly recovered. Her pulse calmed down into something reasonable again. The slow, melty fire cooled. As the breeze of the New York wind tunnel brushed against her skin, her blush eased off her skin like a receding tide.

He stared at his phone, hitting button after button as he fiddled with… Something. "I'm making porny wallpaper for my laptop when we get home."

"You can't do that," she said. "You use that laptop at work." She moved to look at the pictures over his shoulder, but he curled away with a laugh, hiding the results of his trickery from view.

"So?" he countered with a chuckle. "We have real sex at work, why not have porny wallpaper at work?"

"You wouldn't."

He wagged his eyebrows at her in a suggestive, lewd expression that said he would. He so, so would. Maybe. Well, possibly. Maybe she was being paranoid. But he looked very dangerous right then. Dangerous and… really freaking gorgeous.

"I might," he replied in a whisper that curled down her spine like he'd reached under her shirt and slipped his fingers down the line of bone. He hooked his phone back onto his belt clip. Then he shifted and draped himself over her back, wrapping his arms around her waist in a pose she was beginning to think of as her own personal Derek-sweater. And it sucked, because she really liked it, and it made it very, very hard to stay mad.

"You're skating toward no porn tonight," she said, breathless, even as he had her standing there, shivering, thinking all sorts of bad, naughty, naked Derek thoughts. Which would possibly be unhelpful for that night if she were going to really attempt any sort of stalwart denial as punishment. Except, the crappy thing about it was, it would be punishment for her as well. And he knew it.

"For porny wallpaper of my hot fiancé that keeps on giving?" he said, his voice curling with a soft, laughing tone as he spoke into her neck, accenting the words with a series of short, worshiping kisses along her clavicle. "So worth it." The words brushed against her skin. She licked her lips. He was freaking sexy, he knew it, and sometimes, that really freaking sucked. His hand cupped her hip, and the warmth seeped through her slacks.

"Ass," she hissed as her throat went dry. "Seriously…"

"Seriously!"

She moaned, curled around in his grasp to face him, and kissed him again. The cool thing about the mutual attraction bit was that she could mess him up just as badly as he could send her into la-la land. He leaned forward, his fingers tightening over her hips. He wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention as she let her hand roam down his chest, down, down and lower to his waistline. He made a cute little groan in the back of his throat as she slipped her fingers under the denim, distracting, distracting. There. She pulled back from him with his phone in tow.

"I'm taking this hostage," she said.

He panted at her, making several false starts that included syllables like uh, uh, ah, wha? before he managed to say, "You're kidnapping my phone?"

"Damned straight I'm kidnapping your phone."

"But…"

"Now, hail a taxi like a good little Manhattanite… Manahattanonian… Manha… Man."

"You're kidnapping my phone, and now you're calling me little?"

"Feed me, Derek," she growled. "My stomach. Demands. Food."

He laughed. "Fine. But I want my phone back."

"Only after I've fixed it."

"Fixed it?"

"Seriously, Derek," she replied as he turned toward the street and started prowling with his gaze for a cab that looked available. "Us snogging in Times Square? Not porn."

His hand, partially raised for a hail, came back down like an afterthought as he whipped around to face her. "I said it was porny, not porn!"

"Like I said. I'll fix it."

He went silent for a minute, utterly silent. And then he started to smile. Evilly. "Oh," he replied, his voice dropping into low, sexed tones that… really made her want to jump him. He came at her again, brushing up into her personal space. "I could call you with your phone, you know," he said, low, rich, growly. "Mine's on vibrate."

She snorted and pushed away. "Very cute."

"Just trying to be helpful."

"Take me for a ride, Derek. That'd be helpful."

"Okay, okay," he grumbled. "You mean in a taxi, I'm assuming."

"Derek…"

Finally able to follow through without distraction, he hailed them a cab in moments. She climbed into the cab and settled against the cool, leather seats. The car was in slightly bad shape. The fabric of the seats was ripped in a few places, letting the cottony underbelly spill out like guts, and it smelled like someone had tried to erase some of the less fun scents with too much Armor All and Pine Sol. The seats were freaking slippery, and she felt like she was sitting inside a lemon. Not a lemon car. A lemon fruit. It was… stinky.

The cab driver didn't even turn around to look at them, didn't say hello, even as Derek shuffled into the seat and closed the door behind himself with a slam. "205 East Houston Street," Derek told the driver, who finally made a sound. Just a grunt. Whether it meant yes, I need directions for that, I hope you tip me well, or just… I hate you all and cabs suck, she would never know, but he looked like a grumpy, grumpy person, so she decided on the latter-most option. It definitely fit the scowl she saw through the rear-view mirror.

The taxi pulled out into traffic, and as she curled up against Derek in the backseat for the ride, her hip rubbed up against the ring box in his pocket. Ring. Ring. Ring, a little chorus sang in her head, and she couldn't help but loose a little purr. As he leaned back in the seat, and she slid up against him, he groaned, turned, smiled at her, but his lips were set in a thin, frustrated line. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

"Just priming the pump," she whispered, breathing in the warmth of his skin.

"Do I get hazard pay for this tour guide gig?"

"Is that a ring box in your pocket or…" She nuzzled his neck, twisting her fingers into his hair, licking her way up his neck, along the line of his jaw. She watched out of the corner of her eye. Grunty taxicab guy didn't seem to care, so she went in for the kill and nipped.

Everything was just… Perfect.

"Mere…" he managed between rasping breaths. "Taxi… Bad."

Okay, perfection minus one. Stupid taxi, stupid waiting… Stupid… Burning hunger for actual food. She wanted the hotel now. Except she also wanted to not die of starvation. And she knew if she didn't stop teasing him, if the look on his face was any indication, she might very well be committing them to the porn, no turning back.

She pouted as she pulled away. Stupid ravenous famishment. Her stomach growled again, and in the relative quiet of the taxi, the noise of her gurgly innards was definitely audible. Derek, dazed as he was, didn't seem to notice. Grunty taxicab guy was in front of a thick, scratched-up, plastic wall, so… yeah. She'd escaped scrutiny. She slipped back across the seat, feeling a little like she was butt-skiing across the leather. She tugged her seatbelt on as she practically fell into the dip on her side of the car, folding her arms over her stomach with a grimace as she settled.

"So," she said. "Where are we going?"

Derek blinked. "What?"

"Where are we eating?" she clarified.

He blinked again and finally seemed to come back to himself. She couldn't help but grin despite the fact that her stomach seemed to be declaring war on her. He did things to her, but it was a two-way street. And that was… Really invigorating.

He swallowed and collected himself. "It's a surprise," he replied.

"Another surprise?"

"Hey now, you said, and I quote, surprise me."

"I didn't mean surprise, surprise me."

"So," he said, a playful smirk pasting across his features. "This wasn't a literal surprise we were talking about?"

"No," she replied. "So, what is it?"

"Are there such things as non-literal surprises? Because if you're not surprised, how is that surprising?"

"Derek…"

"You'll like it," he assured her. "It's very unhealthy. Just your type of place."

"You're taking me to an unhealthy place?"

"Sure."

She frowned. "Are you actually going to eat anything? I don't want you to starve."

He shrugged. "I'll share with you."

"Share?"

"They serve big portions, Mere."

"You're actually going to consume something… heart clogging?"

"I do indulge from time to time, Mere," he replied.

"Wow," she said. "This must be a good place." Her stomach rumbled up in agreement, but Derek, though his eyes darted down to her abdomen, didn't comment. His lips quirked. Just a little. But he didn't comment.

"You'll probably recognize it," he said instead.

"From where?"

"A movie."

"What movie?"

"It's a surprise, Mere. You can't be surprised if you know what movie it's from."

"Fine," she conceded with a dramatic sigh. She flopped against the seat. "You should order with an accent. Men with accents are hot."

He regarded her silently for a moment. "Waht," he said after the pause, his tone dropping in pitch as he turned his voice all scratchy and… Not Derek. "Ya wan' me ta tauwk like dis?"

"Holy crap," she said, her breath catching. "That's… You used to…"

"Ya wan' me ta tauwk doity? I ken say enough doity woids ta make ya noggin hoit."

She stared at him as he stared back, grinning at her, the rest of his expression hidden conveniently behind his sunglasses. That was… That was… Not Derek. Not… Not… What? It was like his vocal cords had been twisted into something…. Not Derek. It didn't match up with her conception of him at all. Not one tiny bit. It… He… She'd heard the classic Brooklyn accent countless times in movies, from other natives she knew, but… But… It so did not belong anywhere in the vicinity of his mouth. It just… It didn't.

_I'm surprised you don't have an accent.  
_

I worked hard to drop it when I started doing more and more consults outside the city.

"Holy crap," she repeated.

He snorted. "I'm kidding, Mere," he said, slipping back into speech that was most certainly himself.

For a minute, she was so flummoxed at the sudden switchback that she just sat there, blinking, amazed. She breathed, trying to catch up with the fact that Derek seemed Derek-y again. "You said you worked hard to get rid of it!" she exclaimed after the long, whirling pause. "I thought…"

"I'm from the Upper East Side, Mere," he replied. "I used to muck up some of my vowels, enough that for professional reasons it seemed like a good idea to retrain myself if I wanted to branch out of New York, but I think that's about it. I kept my Rs, at least."

"That was… That was… Like you were a sock puppet for an alien, or something."

He grinned. "Dat's ma goil. Always expressin' hoiself like a poet."

They both managed to keep quiet for about two seconds before they broke into peals of laughter. She was crying by the time the hilarity cleared. His face was ruddy and flushed. "Okay, no more, please," she panted as she wiped the tears from her eyes. "It makes me feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone."

He laughed some more. "I'll have to save it for a rainy day to drive you crazy, I guess."

"Wonderful," she growled, though she couldn't help but smile back at him. "So, where are we going?" she tried again.

He shook his head. "Told you. Surprise."

"Fine," she said. "Fine. I guess I can take another surprise after that… Jumbly, crazy bit of stuff that came out of your mouth, which, by the way, I'm refusing to admit was words. So wrong, coming from you. I just… No. It was seizures. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it."

He stared at her for a moment, and then he laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and she decided she liked it a lot. It was far better than memory-twisted Derek from earlier. She joined him. And, slowly, they settled. Meredith leaned back against the seat and smiled. She watched the scenery drift past in the stop-and-start crawl of the New York traffic, listening to Derek's soft, sexy tour guide voice as he pointed out various sights and fun things.

And Meredith does Manhattan continued to its next stop.


	31. Chapter 29

"Oh," Meredith groaned as she wobbled out of Katz's Deli on unsteady feet. Derek guided her, hands resting softly on her hips like an afterthought. They moved out onto the street. He followed her as she shuffled haphazardly around the corner and leaned against the wall, hands clutched around her stomach. 

Derek couldn't decide whether to grin or frown as she curled up against him and groaned again. "You really should have stopped sooner," Derek said.

He didn't catch the full sentence as she half-mumbled, half-groaned it into his sweater. But there was something about pastrami, something about heaven… something, something. Something….

When they'd passed through the turnstile and into the deli, Meredith's eyes had widened at the crowd bustling back and forth. "Oh, it's this place!" she'd said, delighted as recognition replaced bewilderment. "The one with the faking. Thing. With. With Meg Ryan!" The ticket system the deli used to track orders, well, she'd been appropriately cowed by it, so he'd taken the lead and ordered them both a pastrami to split, smiling as she'd followed him, her hungry stare chasing the workers behind the counter making sandwich after sandwich as she'd trailed after him. The smell of cooking meat and grease and other things had twisted through the air, torturing her. Which he'd known because she'd complained. A lot. "It smells good in here!" she'd said. "I'm hungry!" Again. And again.

Shortly after that, the pacing had started, not that she'd had much room to move in the crush of the crowd, but he'd watched her try her damndest, a stupid smile stuck on his face the whole time. When they'd finally managed to sit down, he'd set the plate out before them and waited with bated breath while she sampled her first piece. Her first bite had been not at all hesitant, despite how gigantic and intimidating the sandwich had looked. She'd lifted it up and worked her teeth into it like a starving… beast, some sort of small carnivorous pile of grrr that had been presented with a delectable piece of mutton. Well, she had said she was hungry.

Really hungry.

Hungry enough that after she'd finished her half, she'd gone after the half that was left of his half. She hadn't asked if it was okay. She'd just sort of taken it. But, well, she was a weakness of his. A certifiable weakness. He'd just cupped his head with the heels of his palms and watched, amazed, wondering where the hell she found room in her tiny little body for so much food. He was uncomfortably full, and that was just from the quarter-sandwich he'd consumed. He was certain that she had found a way to destroy matter, no energy involved. Either that, or she possessed her own personal black hole, conveniently located somewhere within her digestive tract.

But even more fun than watching her defy the laws of physics had been the way she'd looked after every taste. Her first moan of pleasure had been hesitant, barely audible as she'd swallowed and licked her lips. The only thing that had made him realize the sound had come from her had been the look of unadulterated lust pasted across her face. At first, he'd thought she was being humorous and doing the Meg Ryan thing. And then he'd realized, no, she really just adulated, perhaps even deified pastrami. He'd considered that theory proven when she'd moaned, "Oh, god…" for what seemed like the twenty-seventh time in a row.

"Are you all right?" he asked when noticed that she'd stayed silent against him for almost a whole minute. He rubbed his hand up and down her back, trying to soothe her.

She looked up at him with a woeful expression. "So. Full."

"Well," he replied, "I was going to suggest we go do something relaxing, now, like ride the Staten Island Ferry, but…"

Her face crinkled up in a look of woozy, nauseated horror. "Oh, no. Rocking. Waves. Sea… Stomach. River. Water. Moving. No boats. Not now," she moaned. And then she blinked. "You actually want to go on a ferryboat?"

He shrugged. "We live in Seattle, Mere. One of these days, we're going to have to ride a boat. Might as well rip the band-aid off on a good day."

"I guess," she said. "But not now. You might need a cart just to carry me home, Derek. That was so good. I couldn't stop."

"So," he said, kissing the top of her head. She moaned at him, but it was a frustrated, I'm-so-full-I-could-explode moan, not one of pleasure. Not like the ones she'd been mewling while she'd been eating her sandwich, doing that alight, adorable eye rolling and that orgasmic swooning. "You weren't faking those little moans?"

"Derek…"

"They were cute," he said. "Way cuter than Meg Ryan's rendition."

"I like pastrami!"

He smiled. "I heard. I saw."

She hit his chest softly with the heel of her palm, and he laughed as she practically growled at him. "Oh yeah?" she countered. "Well, maybe you weren't being vocal about it, but you made a face while you ate. I totally saw you make it."

"A face?"

"Yeah, it was your sex face," she said, and then her voice went low and panty as she continued in a very, very good rendition of the Meg Ryan bit, "Except, in addition to oh, god, oh, god, it said why, why, why am I a health nut?"

He laughed. "I like pastrami, too, you know. And you ate half of mine."

"Yeah, whatever," she replied, rolling her eyes. "You're never fooling me with your fake salad lust ever again."

"Hey, I like salads."

"You're totally Meg about salads."

"I am not!"

"Are too…"

"Am not."

"Are too. Admit it," she said. "You're all for the fatty, greasy moo under that fruity soybean-and-lettuce exterior."

"Well, fine, maybe I am, but how else would I stay this hot?" he said, gesturing at his stomach, which was thankfully quite flat to prove his point despite how full he felt. "I don't have your metabolism, Mere."

She stared at him for a moment, silent. Her eyes rolled again, and not in that cute orgasmic way, either. "That's what I've always loved about you, Derek," she said. "Your humility."

"I am humble!" he protested. "I humbly admit my metabolism has followed me into middle age."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure I'll be joining you in a few years. For now, though. Pastrami. Ohhh." She moaned, gripping her stomach in discomfort, and he felt the intense need to hold her and take it all away.

He rubbed her back and cradled her in his arms as he leaned back against the brick wall. People passed on the street, but he and Meredith were essentially being ignored, off in their own private island on Manhattan. The city was much less crowded in this area. He ran his fingers through her hair. "You should have gotten a doggy bag, Mere."

"But it was on the plate," she said. Her thin fingers toyed with his sweater, bunching it up in the clutch of her palms. She looked adorable. Had he mentioned she looked adorable? "And so…" She moaned. "So good."

He clucked his tongue. "Shameful. No willpower whatsoever."

"I have willpower," she replied. "Just not with food. Or you."

He smiled. "It's mutual, trust me."

She rose up onto her toes, wrapped her arm around behind his neck, and pulled him down against her, kissing him. Her tongue swept into his mouth, and he welcomed it as he sucked at her lip, sucked and nipped and… She pulled back like a rocket, leaving him breathless, addled...

"You taste like pastrami," she said, making a face.

He frowned. "Well, you do, too… I thought you liked pastrami."

"On bread, yes."

He snorted with laughter, and she thunked her head back against his chest as she giggled along with him. "So, what's next?" she asked, once she'd recovered.

"Well, it's after three…" he mused. "We probably only have time for one more thing before we should head back to the hotel to check in and change."

"Change?"

"For dinner."

"Oh," she said, "It's a fancy restaurant?" Her face brightened as she smiled, her gaze lost somewhere else, somewhere not on the street with him.

"Well," he replied, "We could probably go like this if we're running late." He gestured to their clothes. She wore loose black slacks, a tighter black knit shirt, and a cute little creamy sweater thing that buttoned in a way that accentuated the curve of her breasts. Really, the only thing that might not work amongst them was his jeans, but at least they weren't frayed, and they didn't have holes. His sweater and his button-down shirt would be fine for anything but the dressiest of places. Then again, he knew she'd packed a very nice, short, curvy black dress at his behest. She'd asked him when she'd been packing for this trip if she would need to dress up, and he'd promised her that if she packed the black thing, he'd find a reason for her to wear it.

He really hoped they had time to change.

"So, it's not a fancy restaurant," she said, and her brightened expression fell a little out of the rafters into something less... nuclear.

He shrugged. "I haven't been there, Meredith. Kathy recommended it."

"Well, I'm all for changing," she said, enthusiastic again. She stared at him, her eyes went distant, a cute curl of a smile pulled at her mouth, and then she shook her head, blinked back into the world at large, and licked her lips. "You in a suit is just…"

He laughed as he realized where her distant place had been. "Well, you caught me, too. I just wanted you to get into that little black dress you packed. So, seriously, what do you want to do? We're burning changing time."

She thought silently for a moment, and he rubbed her back idly while she considered the options. He started trying to think of places to take her, just in case she really couldn't think of something she wanted to see. A walk in Central Park would probably help with her fullness. That could be nice. Though, he wasn't sure if he was up to a lot more walking at this point. He closed his eyes for a minute and breathed, letting the brief darkness soothe him. The pastrami, which sat heavily in his stomach, had been a large enough meal to make him drowsy to begin with, and on top of that, he was tired anyway. Just a little. Nothing like the day before. But, still. It had a sort of dragging effect. He grimaced and thought to himself, okay, body, give me another day. You can rest on the plane. Body didn't reply. He hoped it wasn't preparing another silent coup.

So, where else to go? Maybe the Cloisters, but then again, Meredith didn't really seem like the type who would enjoy that sort of thing. Medieval art. No. He didn't see her as a museum person in general, either. It was a shame that it was too early for a good show. She'd possibly get a kick out of seeing a Broadway musical like Phantom. Or maybe something funny like Spamalot. Maybe--

"I want to see Mount Sinai," she said, interrupting his thoughts. "Where you worked."

He blinked. Well, that wasn't… Wasn't really what he'd been expecting at all. "You want me to take you to the hospital?"

She nodded. "Where you worked," she said. "Show me your office."

He frowned. Mount Sinai? That was a place he hadn't expected to see again for a long time. "It's probably been rented to someone else, Mere."

"So? I want to see it."

"Really? I'm sure there're more interesting things to see, Mere…"

She gave him a cute smile, a cute smile that had him melting, and he couldn't resist smiling back at her as she whispered, "You're interesting to me," her expression and tone uncharacteristically shy.

"Okay," he replied despite his strange reluctance. Reluctant. Why was he reluctant? He'd been willing to stay in the hotel he'd stayed in the night he'd discovered Addison. He'd been to Times Square and stood there in the midst of some of his very favorite memories of Mark and the fun times they'd had, particularly when they'd just started their internships. He'd already slogged through it all in his head more than once.

What was the issue?

He sighed and raised his hand, hailing a cab as it prowled down the street looking for would-be passengers. The cab slowed and stopped. He sighed as they got into the car, sighed and leaned back against the seat. "Mount Sinai Medical Center," he told the driver, who nodded, and the car was moving before he'd even managed to clip his belt on.

Meredith settled closely to him, opting for the middle seat this time instead of the far side. Pastrami breath was apparently enough of a deterrent for the hanky panky she'd tortured him with earlier, and he was happy to just sit there with her, happy but... She sighed against his chest as he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, pushing up his sunglasses to rub his eyes underneath. As the car had started rolling, a brief hint of swirly nausea hit him. He swallowed it back, and he was fine again, fine, but just... Off.

No coups, he told himself. Damn it. He'd sleep when he got home.

Something jingled. He looked down, trying to focus on the white blur hovering in front of his face. A travel-sized bottle of ibuprofen. Meredith held it clutched in her hands like a teacup as she offered it up to him. Her purse lay open at her hip, all manner of things busting out of it like loose stuffing. A brush. A few tampons. A long wallet. She'd had to go routing for the painkillers. And he hadn't noticed at all.

"For your headache," she said when he looked at her curiously.

"I don't have a…" he began, and then he stopped. Stopped and thought about it. The slow throb that had been back behind his awareness tromped into the space between his eyes and pounded at him. "Headache," he finished lamely.

He took the bottle from her and swallowed two of the pills dry. "Thanks," he said as he felt the bump of the second one slide down his throat uncomfortably.

"It's really pretty obvious, Mr. Mopey. I don't get why you don't treat yourself," she said, a smile quirking her features.

"I hope this stops soon," he said.

"It will, Derek," she assured him, rubbing his arm. "PCS resolves spontaneously. I bet you'll wake up someday next week, and you'll realize you're fine."

He sighed. He hoped it would be as simple as that. But he'd been a neurosurgeon long enough to see some of the horror cases. People who still had chronic problems months later. People who never managed to heal completely. A concussion was a serious head trauma, constantly made light of by the media, by stupid action flicks. But, really, on the most basic level, it was still brain damage. And the human brain was sadly still far too much of a mystery for the medical community to even agree in certain terms on what exactly PCS was, let alone anything definitive about its duration or why it was so variable.

He closed his eyes and breathed, relishing the warmth of her next to him. She fumbled to put her purse back in working order, stuffing, jamming, twisting items to make them all fit inside again. He didn't bother to tease her. Women and their purses made no sense to him and never ever would. Contrary to popular opinion, he did sometimes learn things. Like not to ask why she needed all that junk. He caressed her side absently as she muttered things about needing something bigger, which seemed ludicrous to him. Her purse was already more like a tote bag.

He pointed out the window to the right as they passed the first notable bit of scenery he could think to play tour guide again with. "That's the 59th Street Bridge, if you care, by the way," he said.

She stopped her purse pulverizing to look out the window. "Is it special?"

He shrugged. "Mary Jane Watson got tossed from it."

"Mary who?"

"Oh, come on," he replied. "Spider-Man. Green Goblin?" She had to have at least seen the damned movie.

She snickered. "Well, I suppose it's good to know now."

"What is?"

"That I'm marrying a dork," she replied, patting his shoulder in a sympathetic, it's-okay-dear way that made him pout.

"Spider-Man is cool," he said.

He'd read the comics as a kid. Well, he'd read the ones Mark hadn't stolen from him five minutes after he'd cracked the spine. Mark had been bigger, well, still was, but when they'd been kids, while Derek hadn't been against hitting back, sadly, Mark had usually ended up clocking him into the pavement whenever he'd tried. It was how he'd broken his nose. His mother hadn't been very pleased when he'd come inside with a bloody face. On the bright side, Mark had chipped his knuckles.

He and Mark had enthusiastically gone to see the first Spider-Man movie in the theater on opening night. Mark had asked him to go to the second one, but Derek had been bogged down with work, both real, and looking back on it, manufactured, and he'd said no. Weeks. Mere weeks later, and he was driving in the rain wondering how the hell his life had gotten so twisted up and shredded.

"Tobey Maguire is cool," Meredith countered. "Spider-Man is dorky."

"Mary Jane is hot, at least," he said, forcing his mind back to the present.

Meredith looked up at him. "You like Kirsten Dunst?"

He frowned. His mind screamed. Trick question. Trick question. Don't say a word! "I'm not answering that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm nearly forty," he said. "And she's like… two."

"She's in her mid-twenties, Derek."

"Still…" he replied. "Not answering that."

"Which means yes, doesn't it."

"No comment."

"It's okay," she said. "I like the Cosmo tub guy and he's barely the drinking age."

He looked down at her and smiled. "I thought you said I'd ruined you."

"Except for the Cosmo guy! And Calvin Klein models. And actors."

"Okay, well, so long as we're clear."

"It doesn't bother you, does it?" she asked, her voice suddenly quiet and serious. "That I'm only thirty-two?"

He frowned. No, it really didn't. It never had. He'd looked at her in that bar, and something had just clicked. It had never been about age, though she did sometimes make him feel old. Sometimes. Like with the fact that she could eat a truckload of pastrami and not gain one tiny ounce. And the real biggie…

When she'd admitted to him that she'd never been in a serious relationship before, and it'd really hit him just how fragile everything he'd built with her was. The thing with Mark… It made him feel weary. Weary, and definitely old. He'd been married, been cheated on, tried again, cheated right back, and been divorced. And she was fresh out of the starting gate, fresh to the point that he'd had to explain that fighting didn't mean something was ending. That had been a real shock for him. She'd seemed so… Sure of herself, sure and flirty and strong in the beginning, that he'd never thought he might be smearing some snow with dirt.

Not that she was all that pure, either. But he quickly veered away from that thought before it got him stuck in the gutter. He looked at her, ran his fingers through her hair, and sighed. It was only an eight-year difference. Well, almost eight. Not huge. Plenty of relationships had formed around larger gaps. And, really, despite the fact that sometimes the difference did flare up quite a bit, it didn't… bother him. It just made him feel… Real. Not drenched in the fantasy. Which wasn't necessarily bad.

"No, Mere," he said. "It doesn't bother me. Does it bother you that I'm nearly forty?"

"No," she replied, a little too quickly. "Well… No."

He stilled as he heard the sudden tension clamp around her tone like a vice twisting tighter. That definitely meant yes, at least a little. He'd never asked before, never really thought to ask. They'd just sort of… happened. And he'd gone with it.

"Well, what?" he prodded, a cold, coiling sort of fear slipping underneath his skin. Age was something he couldn't fix. Couldn't ever fix. It just was. And if it bothered her…

"Let's talk about it later," she said.

"But…"

"I'm happy right now. Let's talk about it later."

"Okay, Meredith," he replied, sighing, unable to press her more, because they had finally arrived. "Later."

He paid the cabbie, and they got out of the car. She hefted her purse over her shoulder. He smiled, wrapped his arm around her waist, and guided her toward the 5th Avenue entryway. Mount Sinai wasn't like Seattle Grace. It wasn't one huge, sprawling building. It was a series of them spread out like a college campus. His old office had been buried behind a series of winding hallways and stairs and pathways that weren't necessarily obvious at first glance.

Mount Sinai Medical Center. The main building rose like a tower in front of them. People were everywhere. Staff, walking in, walking out. Visitors, walking in, walking out. Sick people, walking in, walking out, hobbling in, hobbling out, wheeling in, wheeling out. But Derek stood still, far back on the walk. Meredith waited patiently.

It was the first place Derek actually felt twinges of… unsettlement that were hard to ignore. The big pangs he'd been expecting outside the Algonquin, while he'd been standing in Times Square… They hit him now, though it certainly had nothing to do with the homesickness he'd been expecting when he'd offered Meredith this tour. It was literally the first place in Manhattan Derek found himself not only far from actively missing, but rather actively dreading.

As he halted again in front of the sliding, double doors, his breath caught for a moment. He could remember so many times when he'd walked through those doors. Even the last, though he hadn't known it when he'd been in the act of it. When he'd packed up and moved he'd done a lot more moving than packing. He'd left everything but his clothes and a few sentimental knickknacks when he'd fled. He had left his office untouched, let his secretary box his things up and mail them out to him in Seattle once he'd gotten a mailing address. He'd had all his active patients referred without warning, which he regretted, but… He just hadn't been able to stay.

Mark had been with him, that last time he'd come here. Mark had somehow found the time to come to work that day, and had accompanied Derek, all smiles, cheer, and arrogant snark like he always was. All on the same day he'd fucked Addison.

Derek had been behind. Behind on mountains of paperwork. He'd often neglected paperwork in favor of getting in on the next cutting edge surgery, the next new miracle procedure. Though he'd had a private practice, he had a very good relationship with the teaching doctors at the center, and they called him in. Often. Sometimes to teach, sometimes to learn. Sometimes for both. He'd had a week of nonstop cutting, and he'd had a pile of paper in his inbox about a foot-and-a-half high to churn through as a result.

"Cheer up, man," Mark had joked. "Just make scribbly chicken-scratch lines in the blanks and call it done. Nobody can read doctor handwriting anyway."

The day had been a nightmare. He'd spent it all in the office, reading, writing, reading, writing, until his eyes had been solid clusters of throbbing soreness. He'd leaned back in his chair, breathed, and as the last bit of daylight had slipped from the sky, Mark had poked his head in. "Well," he'd said. "I finished that rhinoplasty. Miss Jenkins now looks cute and perky instead of wicked-witchy. I am a genius. Ready to go, man?"

"I can't," Derek had replied, gesturing to the sprawling reams of paper, cracked open folders, research books, texts, and piled junk on his desk. "I have to get through all this stuff before it turns my desk into a steaming compost heap."

There had been a time, once, when Mark would have protested, would have told him to lighten up, to get off his ass and go home to Addison, but not anymore. Mark had swallowed. He'd gotten a pinched, sort of sad look on his face, he'd nodded, and he'd left. Just like that, Mark had left.

The sky had opened up moments later, rumbling with a foreboding that Derek had simply… Not thought about at all. Because he'd had paperwork. Miles of it. His eyes had hurt, his wrist had been killing him from the constant pen work, his brain had been scrambled, and he'd known very well he should have just gone home, because his productivity had been suffering already, and would only continue to do so. Instead, he'd stayed. He'd stayed, and Mark had left.

Left to go fuck Addison.

How did that work? How did that even begin to work? Derek had never really thought about it before. Never really… thought about the day of. The night was too raw, and he'd always gotten stuck in it, unable to rewind and analyze, unable to get past it. Not until Meredith, anyway. And, after Meredith, he hadn't really felt a need to analyze it anymore. So, he just hadn't.

Hadn't thought about it. At all.

Had Mark known he was going to fuck Addison when he'd left that day? Impossible to tell. Derek liked to think Mark would be the guy that admitted it up front. He was pretty forward, pretty blunt, and with Derek, he was usually painfully honest. "Derek, I'm going to fuck your wife." Derek liked to think he would have said it if it had been premeditated.

But then why had Mark looked sad… Sad like he knew Derek was ruining things, even when Derek didn't. Sad like he knew he loved Addison, and knew Derek was hurting her, and knew he didn't like it.

How did that work?

"Derek?" Meredith whispered. Her arms wrapped around his stomach, and he shuddered back into the present.

"Sorry," he said. He led her through the door, giving her a brief tour of the facility. Not much had changed. He saw familiar faces, familiar faces he found himself having the inexplicable need to dodge. He'd turn away when someone he knew passed, anything to prevent them from saying hello, saying hello and asking what the hell had happened.

He did find some enjoyment in watching Meredith, at least. Meredith listened to him with rapt attention while he babbled on almost nervously about surgeries he'd done, people he'd met, things he'd experienced, and the pleasure on her face was only tempered by the barest hint of concern. He could tell it was for him. The concern.

By the time they arrived at the suite where he and Mark had worked out of, he felt wired, wired and tense, and unsure about why this place was making him so uncomfortable. The door to what had once been his office suite was decorated with a small, shiny, silver plaque. Dr. Myers, Dr. Walcott, and Dr. Abbey. The names gleamed against the dim light of the hallway. Nobody he knew, and it was unsettling. It was supposed to say Dr. Shepherd and Dr. Sloane. It was. It had. And now it didn't.

He swallowed. "Well, this is it," he said as Meredith came to a stop next to him, and they just stared at the door like it was some sort of impenetrable oak wall. He didn't dare check to see if it was locked. He wasn't sure he wanted to see what Dr. Myers, Dr. Walcott, and Dr. Abbey had done to the innards of the place. "Mark and I shared it."

Meredith touched the plaque. "You don't seem like the private practice type," she said.

He frowned. "I don't?"

"Private practice neurosurgery? That's a big money, big reputation game, Derek. You've always seemed more to me like you're in it for the feel-good, not for the money or the clout."

He didn't really know what to say to that. He'd started up his practice as a business endeavor, a way to rise to the top, without ever really considering what that meant at the time. It was important to be upwardly mobile. To aspire. That point of view had pounded itself into his brain as he'd grown up, no dad, and he was forced to make himself… Be something. Something that would never be enough until he'd won. Won what? Who knew… But Dad wasn't around to say whether he was proud already or not, and so it'd all twisted up into a drive that'd… Crunched up the person he was like a little Volkswagen Beetle plowing into a semi.

It hadn't been until he'd found Addison with Mark that he'd realized how much he simply… Hated it. Everything. His life. Saving people had always been the icing on the cake that had kept him going. But in New York, it'd always felt like exactly what it was. Business. Smile and be friendly to the fake-nice people who will pay for the tumors to be gone from their spines, brains... It had never felt like that at Seattle Grace. He'd been all about making it before. And now he felt sort of like he'd finally settled, finally found his niche. Seattle Grace fit with him. And it wasn't just because of Meredith.

He breathed in sharply as the realization coalesced somewhere in the mire of his thoughts.

"Oh, my god. Is that you? Shep!" a low, growly voice belted across the hall. Derek turned to see Dr. Harold Gretsky striding toward them. Harold wore a pristine white lab coat over green scrubs and snazzy-looking cross-trainers that didn't have even one scuff mark. He was a tall, thin man in his late forties. His hair was a slick, silvered color, crimped and short.

"Harry," Derek replied, smiling weakly as the older doctor approached. Harry had been Derek's chief resident when Derek had been an intern, and they'd grown to be fairly close colleagues as Derek had rose in the ranks. Derek hadn't seen anyone from Mount Sinai since he'd left it. He got called out on consults from Seattle Grace all the time, but luckily, Mount Sinai housed some of the best neurosurgeons on the East Coast, Harry included, and, well, they hadn't needed to call him in for anything yet.

"Harry, this is Dr. Meredith Grey, my fi--girlfriend," Derek said, barely managing to correct himself in time. The fiancé thing was definitely a dangerous area. He was far too bubbly about it. Meredith stuck her hand out to shake Harry's, and Harry looked back at her. Derek didn't miss the judgment there. Nor did he miss the surprise. Or the thousands of other things. Harry wasn't known for being stone-faced. "Mere, this is Dr. Harold Gretsky. He was a teacher of mine."

Whatever Harry had been feeling, he managed to stuff it away in some box and bow slightly. "Charmed, Dr. Grey," he said suavely, and to his credit, he didn't say a word about the missing wife. "Shep, I read that paper you wrote on the conjoined twins separation. That was fascinating! I can see how Seattle Grace managed to woo you over to them," he continued, as if Derek's sudden disappearance wasn't at all strange, "What brings you back to Mount Sinai?"

Derek cleared his throat. "Just showing Meredith around my old haunt."

Haunt. Haunt seemed like a particularly apt word to describe things. He felt like a ghost. Like he shouldn't be there. And it was odd, having this conversation outside his old office door. He half-expected Mark to barge out of the old office and start cracking jokes. Instead, his ex-friend's younger apparition passed by in a breeze of memory.

"Derek, you suck, man," Mark said. "You didn't even get her a card?"

"I was busy," he replied as Mark wrapped his arm over Derek's shoulder and pulled Derek into a tight… not hug. It was something darker. More threatening.

"Yeah, elbow deep in brain tumor," Mark said, his voice dripping with… Anger. "It's your anniversary. How do I know that, but you forgot?"

The two of them walked off into the hallway and disappeared like… Like they had been lights, and somebody had just… shut them off. Derek stared down the hallway after the memory as it faded, removed from Harry's conversation with Meredith. He knew they were speaking. The words twisted around his ears in a vague curl of mumbled sound.

"Well, do you want to?" Harry asked, his voice slamming through Derek's wandering mind like a wrecking ball.

Derek blinked. "What?"

"Scrub in. I know it's no conjoined, adult twins, but we have a lot of eager interns who would be absolutely thrilled to see you do it. You're still kind of an idol around here, you know."

It. It what? Derek wondered. And, strangely, he found himself utterly not curious, despite the rabid look of glee on Harry's face. Hell, the man was practically salivating. Must be something rare, something worth writing about, but...

"No, thanks," Derek replied, surprised at how easy it was to say. "I owe Meredith dinner."

"She can scrub in, too," Harry said cheerfully. "A girl after my own heart, wanting to specialize in neurosurgery. And, unlike you, I didn't even have to twist her arm about it."

Meredith's expression melted into one of surprise. Derek shook his head. "No thanks, Harry. I appreciate the offer, though."

Harry shook his head. "You? Passing up a… Where's the Twilight Zone music?" He joked.

Derek shrugged, and Harry's beeper went off. He pulled it from his belt. "911, I have to go," Harry said. "Let me know when you're back in town next time, we'll do lunch."

And then he was gone, and Meredith was staring at him. As the silence settled around them in Harry's wake, and as he stared at the place where Harry had been, Meredith wrapped her arms around him, as if she knew just how… Unsettled he felt. "He had to twist your arm to specialize?" she asked.

He swallowed. "I couldn't decide between cardio-thoracics and neurosurgery for the longest time."

"What made you finally pick?"

"My dad," he answered. His dad had died of a ruptured aneurysm. "Neurosurgery just hit… closer to home with me. I felt more connected to it." Every successful surgery that saved a kid from living without a parent… Worth it. It reaffirmed why he'd chosen to be a surgeon in the first place.

He supposed he really was more about the feel-good than the rest of it. Meredith had called him out on it before he'd figured it out for himself. And that was… Incredible. He tried to smile at her, but it sort of twisted, and he wasn't sure he came across happy.

She nodded. "So, what now?" she asked.

"There's still more of the hospital to see, if you want."

She shook her head. "I've seen enough. And you've been weirded-out ever since we got here."

"Weirded-out?"

"Yeah," she said. "Like you finally figured out the meaning of that saying, you can't go back home again."

He turned to her, a lump forming in his throat. Was he seriously that much of an open book? She'd been reading him all day like… Like he was one of those picture books with a smattering of words fit for the consumption of three-year-olds – easily. "Meredith…"

"Yeah?"

"If I ever…" His voice trailed away, and for a moment, he just couldn't find it. He stared at Meredith. She was beautiful. And she really… Got him. He never wanted that to go away. Never ever.

"Yeah?" she prodded.

He cleared his throat. "Don't ever let me not come home."

"What?"

"With Addison," he explained. "I used to… I used to stay at the office all night doing paperwork, trying to keep up, trying to get ahead, and I…"

"Derek…" she said, interrupting him. "I seriously doubt that will ever be an issue."

"But…"

"You're already worried," she said. "You just passed up a freaking once-in-a… okay, well, maybe thrice-in-a-lifetime, surgery. And you gave up your chance at Chief. For me. That doesn't sound like a man who stays at work too late."

He closed his eyes. "Things change, Meredith." He had changed. A lot, he was realizing. A whole lot.

"This won't."

"But."

"It won't," she said, like it was some sort of scientific fact, and that comforted him. He needed that. He did.

She leaned up and kissed him, stole his breath away. He pushed her flat against the wall and came down on her like a storm. He really needed it. Really. She still tasted a little like pastrami, but he didn't care. And she didn't seem to care either. He slipped his tongue down into her and licked and tasted and sucked, and it was so good, and he couldn't breathe. He just. Needed.

Her fingers pulled at his hair. He felt her nails scraping at him through his sweater. He jammed his groin up against her and pushed her up a little. She moaned. It was a cute, soft, throaty little moan that coiled through him and started building tension. Tension that was bad. Bad in the hospital. They couldn't have hospital sex again. Not when they had a hotel room. Stop, stop, stop, his brain was saying.

But somewhere behind it all, there was a soft, pleading whisper. I need this. I need her. I need. And for a minute, all he could do was Polo to his desire's Marco. Her heat filled him. She squeaked, and another delightful moan slipped down his throat as she pushed back and entered him. It was a slip, slip, slide of skin and heat and breath and he never wanted it to end.

Except they were in the middle of the hallway outside his old office, and they had to stop.

Had to stop.

He grunted and pulled away, pushing his hand out flat against the wall to prop himself up while he panted and blinked and tried to pull himself together. "So," Meredith said, her voice breathy and… lost. She was still recovering, too. "Where to next?"

"It's getting late. You want to head back to the hotel? Traffic will be awful right now. It might take a while."

"Okay," she said. "But, honestly, I don't think I'll ever be hungry again. Not after that pastrami."

He chuckled. "Give it a few more hours, oh bottomless pit of mine."

"Did you just call me a bottomless pit?"

"I might have," he said, smirking at her. He kissed the top of her head.

"Mean," she said, giggling. She had a beautiful giggle. "So mean."

"I find it cute. I really don't know where you put it."

"You think it's cute that I eat like a horse?"

"I think everything you do is cute."

She laughed as they headed toward the street, and he hailed them a cab. The trip back to the hotel was uneventful and long. He'd been right. The traffic was horrible. But at least he had some time to recuperate. He rested with his eyes shut. Meredith didn't bother him for more tour tips or scenic narration. She just rubbed his knee absently while he hovered in the middle of a doze despite the noise that cluttered the air. Traffic, horns, shouting, sirens, cursing. Every once in a while her hand would roam to the ring box in his pocket, and that had made him smile lazily despite the half-sleep that clutched at him.

Check-in at the hotel was fast. Samantha was still there, still ever helpful. And Meredith laughed as the woman brought out their luggage from the coat closet for them. Meredith laughed again as they wheeled their stuff toward the elevator. And she was still laughing when they were finally being lifted toward their floor in the small, enclosed space.

"What?" he said.

"She totally wants you."

"Who?"

"Concierge lady. She was eye-drooling. All. Over you."

"Eye-drooling?" he said, laughing.

"Mmm-hmm," she said, nodding seriously. "It's a technical term. To drool with one's eyes. Not to be confused with sobbing."

The elevator dinged, and they trundled out into the hallway with their suitcases down to the room at the end of the hall. He put the little plastic card into the lock, the LED turned green, and it clicked. He pushed open the door, letting Meredith go in front of him. "Oh, this is cute!" she said as she stepped across the threshold and padded into the room, her footfalls soft and mushy against the red and gold carpet. "A bed and walls, you're right."

He walked in behind her and smiled. "Well, there's some other furniture, too, I guess," he said as he pulled their suitcases into the room one after the other and set them up beside the wall.

She nodded. "A television, even."

"And a desk," he said.

"And a cute little sofa that looks horribly uncomfortable," she added.

He laughed. "Okay, so I guess more than just a bed and walls. I stayed in a smaller room before, though. Maybe we're getting special treatment."

She grinned. "Maybe."

"All right," he said as he righted the last suitcase. "Do you want the shower first?"

He pulled the ring box out of his pocket and stuck it in his carry-on briefcase. No way in hell he was checking a ring with a five-digit price tag.

"You can go," she said. "I'd join you, but…" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Then we wouldn't make it to dinner."

He took a shower quickly, taking a few moments to relax in the spray, but mostly just finishing in utilitarian style. Get clean. Get out. He toweled off, sighing as the small hint of tiredness from before clutched at him and gouged deeper. Just a little bit.

He wrapped the towel loosely around his waist and padded out of the steam and into the main room to grab a pair of boxers, only to find her lying on the bed on her side, her head propped against palm as she stared. And she was naked. His breath caught. Her legs were crossed at the ankles loosely, and the swell of her hip rose in a gentle curve. She smiled, and it was like her skin just glowed with it. She was radiant.

"Mere," he whispered, the word unbidden, reflexive, and mindless. He stood there, already caught in her thrall, and she hadn't done anything but pose.

"So," she said. "I lied. I was thinking, maybe we could just order room service?" Her voice was low and throaty and seductive, purring, curling against his spine. She moved her foot, her whole body shifted, and then she was lying on her back, flat against the bedspread. She spread her legs, giving him a view of everything… Everything she had to offer, and... Hot. He felt very hot. Very, very hot. He swallowed, trying to hold onto reason.

She lowered a hand to pet herself as she rolled her body like a wave. "I'm ready. If you want to." She bit her lip, her lashes lowered as she peered at him, and then, as if it weren't already a done deal, he saw her other hand, the hand up by her head. Between the curl of her fingers, he caught the silver color. His cell phone. He blinked.

His first thought was… When do I ever not want to? But she shifted, and she shredded the thought with nothing more than the way her toes curled against the bedspread. His mind blanked. She raised her petting hand, her fingers loose and glistening, up across her navel, between the swell of her breasts, and then she arched and sighed with a soft, aroused, gasping breath that said she was close. Very close. She'd already worked herself to near orgasm while he'd been in the shower, apparently, and his brain started to fire with all sorts of imagery. Meredith panting and moaning as she drew her fingers into the warmth between her legs. Meredith, snapping off shots with his phone as she started to thrust and twist with abandon against her hand.

He blinked again. "Okay," he finally replied, dumbfounded. It was the only word that came to mind.

He shucked his towel in an absent-minded motion as he strode toward the bed, one, two, three steps. He fell along the length of her body. The warmth of her skin soaked into him in moments. Radiant. She was. She rolled into him, captured his mouth with her own, and what little was left of his comprehension of the world fell away from him. Her hand flexed around his hip, ran up his skin in a curling, petting trail, and when she pulled away, gasping, she handed him his cell phone.

"You should cancel then," she purred.

He sighed, thinking, trying to think, anyway, as he flipped the phone open. Mind. Thoughts. Keep thoughts. Keep thoughts in brain. He scrolled to the number for the restaurant, resisting the fiery urge to check his photo gallery to see if she'd 'fixed' things yet. The host answered the phone on the second ring. "Little Owl, how may I help you?" a rich, soothing voice said above the background murmur.

Derek swallowed, trying to think about speaking rather than having sex with Meredith. "Yeah, I need to cancel my reservation for tonight. Last name, Shepherd."

Meredith grasped him in a firm grip, and he fought not to gasp as she started to pull down and push back in a series of skilled, stroking motions. He clawed the mattress with his free hand and squeezed his eyes shut as she sent him arching off the bed to meet her. The host muttered into the phone as he searched his records. Finally, he said, "Ah, yes, Shepherd, party of two? All right, I'll scratch it out. I'm sorry you won't be joining us tonight."

I'm not, Derek wanted to say. "Thank you," Derek replied instead, his voice breathless, and he barely managed to hang up the phone before he moaned.

"Meredi—" he began, but she cut him off with a kiss that had him on his back, her sliding along top of him as she fondled him. "Oh," he moaned into her mouth as she slid her fingers down to the base of him, that small slip of skin just over his prostate, now made famous by tips three and four. She ran the pad of her finger up and down in slow but pressing strokes. He hardened, lengthened, felt the tension grow as she worked him further and further into a melted place where thoughts were nonsensical and base and all about throwing her down on the bed, naked, mewling while he thrust into her without a rhyme or a rhythm beyond the need to have her, have her completely.

He started to roll onto his side, but she pushed him back with a whispered, "Not yet."

She slid against his abdomen, lifting her finger away from the spot. The bereft confusion he felt transformed into a mindless rocking motion as he pushed up into the air, but she wasn't at the right angle, wasn't anywhere close for the motion to do anything more than make him look like he was out of his mind with need. Which he really sort of was. She curled down and licked his left nipple, his right, pushed up underneath his armpits, encouraging him to stretch back into the headboard. Her hands rode the backward motion of his arms in a soothing trail of touch and fire that made his biceps shiver, and then they closed around his wrists, holding him back against the headboard.

"Mere," he moaned. She kissed him again, and vaguely in the back of his mind, he realized something was going on, something… not normal. She kissed, kissed, kissed him, and he was senseless for a moment. He felt something silky touch his wrists, encircle them, but his mind was more focused on the wetness between her thighs as she straddled him, so close to his erection, but too far, too far away for him to do more than moan helplessly as she worked him further and further into desperation. He wanted, needed to bury himself inside her. Right. Now. She kissed him one last time, and he couldn't. He just couldn't not move. He tried to roll over, tried to get into a better position to take her, only to find that his hands wouldn't come down from the headboard.

He glanced backward and saw through tilted vision his tie, the one he'd been planning to wear to dinner, wrapped in a figure eight around his wrists and looped around the gap in the headboard, pinning him. It was just a simple black tie with pinprick-sized blue dots. He jerked his wrists. What he'd absently thought had been her hands holding him back… It was his tie. His damned tie. How had she managed that without him noticing?

"Mere, what…" He panted…

She smiled at him. "Tip number five. And besides, you worked too hard yesterday."

She settled down against his body. He forced himself to breathe. Momentary, mindless frustration wrapped his brain in knots. "Mere," he whispered. "Please." But he didn't really know what he was begging for at this point.

"Are you okay with this?" she asked, biting her lip, her gray eyes millimeters from his as she leaned down overtop him. She looked serious. Actually serious. And hopeful. He blinked, trying to remember what she was asking. "I was kind of worried when I read it, but… New things are fun. Right?"

"I can't…" he said, panting as she started to touch him again. Can't… Move. Touch you. Think. Stop. Help myself. It was maddening.

She grinned. "That's kind of the idea."

She curled a finger underneath him and ran it up his length. He bucked, gasped, jerked. The headboard rocked back into the wall and thunked against it, but his hands stayed stuck where they were. She'd really gotten him…

"Tip five…" he said, mindless as she worked to keep him somewhere on the edge of nowhere, everywhere, almost unable to believe the situation he'd somehow managed to get himself in… "Tip five said tie me up?" he said, flexing his fingers experimentally. He still had circulation. It was comfortable as long as he didn't yank. For a very brief moment, he wondered where the hell she'd gotten practice at tying wrist-knots with silk ties.

But then she leaned down and licked a winding trail up his torso, leaving an evaporating chill meandering up his skin, and the answer to his idle question didn't seem so important anymore. She worked her way up his neck, up his jaw line, until she hovered by his ear, breathing, and whispered, "Well, specifically, it said a little bondage can go a long way."

He couldn't help but laugh. "Should I call you Mistress Meredith?" he said as the chuckle bled away. He'd give tips three and four to the Cosmo editors. Those had been phenomenal. But this… This was a little out there. A little silly. He'd never… Well, he knew the theory behind it, knew the general concept. Hell, he'd seen people come in for surgery for injuries in sex-related… accidents. But… He panted and lost his thought as Meredith ran her nail against the tip of him.

"Do you trust me, Der?" she asked, ignoring his question.

"Yes," he replied breathlessly. She looked hopeful, hopeful in a way that made him willing to try just about anything. This was going to be a long night, now that they'd cancelled dinner. If this was a total bust, which he really didn't think was possible when him, Meredith, and sex all happened at once, together, they would still have the rest of the night to make up for it.

"Okay," she said. She leaned down over the edge of the bed. He craned his neck to see what she was doing, but all it did was make his neck hurt. He sank back down onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling with a sigh. When she rose up again, she grinned at him, the scrub cab he'd given her in her hands.

What was she going to do with that? And, if it involved sex, he was pretty sure he'd never be able to watch her perform surgery again with any semblance of not naughty thoughts. He thought of her, standing there in nothing but her scrub cap, and then his phone… His phone appeared in the daydream, and she was snapping pictures. He blinked, grunted, tried to keep himself in the here and now. The here and now where he was tied flat against the bed, completely at her mercy, already turned on enough to spill if she would just… Let him. A thrum of desire tore him to shreds, and without any conscious desire to do so, he thrust up against her. She giggled as he bounced her in the air.

"Not yet," she said. "Impatient, naughty man." She leaned down, stared at him, close enough that he saw himself reflected against her pupils, and kissed him, drinking him down, drinking him all down. The faintest hint of lavender hit the back of his throat.

He moaned into her mouth. He pulled on the tie, but there was no give. He wanted to touch her, wanted to run his hands down her back in fiery trails, wanted to start, needed to start. Now. She'd kept him ready. He was starting to ache with the desire to fill her up with himself. He wanted. To move. His biceps twitched, unable to do anything to help him satisfy his need to touch her.

"God, Mere, let me have you," he groaned.

She smiled as she pulled back. "Not. Yet," she said. She rolled the scrub cap up like a burrito, the ties poking out of the sides. And then the world went fuzzy black as she slipped the scrub cap over his eyes and tied it around the back of his head. He jerked his head, surprised as he felt her fingers twisting behind his head to tie the knot. He tried to focus on the fact that she was blindfolding him, and not the fact that her nails felt really good against his scalp as she worked the little strings into whatever configuration she wanted.

"Mere," he whispered, slightly unsettled at the darkness. "This is a little bit…" Much?

He was used to being able to do what he wanted. He was used to the want, take, have mentality when it came to sex. He was good at sex. He knew it. Meredith knew it. And he couldn't…

Couldn't…

He forgot his words when she kissed him. He hadn't seen it coming, hadn't even been remotely prepared as she swept him away in the bliss, and that just made it... Better. She moaned into his mouth, moaned and twisted up against him. Her skin slid against his, rib cage to rib cage in a slow grind of heat. Her nipples rubbed against his chest. Her pelvic bone ground into his groin. The slick warmth between her legs touched him.

He jerked against the tie. This was the part where he would roll over and take her into oblivion with him. Except. No. Her hands clutched at his hips as he began to try and push up into her, push up and go, despite his limited options. No. Denied.

He stared at the darkness in front of his eyes, tried to picture her. She lay against his body, naked, her creamy, slightly-freckled skin touching his, and he couldn't… He had to imagine her-- A loose, weird sound tumbled from his throat when she touched the spot underneath the base of him. She stroked him, long, soothing, slow, wandering touches that had him twisting up to meet the pressure. He was gone. Out of his mind.

"Meredith," he said as his breaths shortened, started to cut him up like knives. The building desire tightened inside him, tightened and built and tightened and built, until he was steel in her grip, and he was gasping, unable to form a coherent thought.

She started to whisper in his ear, her soft breaths buffeting him. "I'm naked, Derek. I'm naked, and I'm on top of you, and I want you. I want you, and I'm touching. Touching you, touching me." Her words were a quiet litany. "Tell me you want me."

"I want." He panted. "Want you."

She shifted, shifted. He couldn't tell what she was doing other than straddling him. Her weight was insignificant. Her finger never left the spot. She gripped underneath his quad and squeezed, ran her palm along the muscle like she was trying to wring moisture out of a rag. He started to bounce, trying to stop the long-suffering need to move that had sunk its claws into him and wouldn't release him. She laughed, playful, sonorous, like a bell, and it was beautiful, but oh, oh, oh so frustrating.

"Let me, please, Mere, let me in," he gasped. He leaned his head back and groaned, the air racking itself over his vocal cords like a sound of pain. It wasn't pain. Not really. Just. Need.

Blinding need.

He arched back into the bed, flopping helpless against it, but she rode it out, and she was still there, low against his groin, straddling him when his wave settled. "I have to… Please… Please, Mere," he found himself begging. He yanked on the tie until his arms hurt, and his breaths sucked down into him like pointless afterthoughts in the fire. "Please," he said.

And he was owned. Right then, she owned him. Desire was a force, a force that crushed him.

He felt something warm and wet touch him, down at the base, moving up to the tip. Tongue. Tongue. She was licking. Teeth. Nipping. Lightly. He clenched his fingers into fists tight enough that if he hadn't recently clipped his nails, he was sure they would have made his palms bloody. She stroked him. He was hard, and ready, and she wasn't letting him… Wasn't letting him bury himself inside her like he wanted and it…

Was maddening.

He was out of control. Out of control underneath her. And all he wanted was her. To finish. To finish her, to listen to her moan as he toppled her over the cliff with him. To be complete. "Please," he found himself begging.

She stroked him again. Her little moans of pleasure wound through his head like music. She was wet, slipping against him. Desire, fire, and want clogged his throat. "Derek," she moaned. She encircled her fingers around the length of him, her grip tightened, she tilted back, and she moaned, and moaned, and moaned, like she was going to release. Her loose hair fell against his chest as she leaned back against him. He wanted to pull her down into him, flip her over on her back and just…

He wanted to finish, wanted to ease the burning fire pilfering his mind neuron by neuron, wanted those little moans of hers to bleed into screaming, screaming his name, Derek, Derek, Derek. He needed to feel her wet heat fluttering around him in the rapid-throb of release, and he needed, needed, needed to let himself spill into her as he took back control and showed her that he was Derek Shepherd, and that he could make her come with as much desperation as he felt just then. Desperate. For her. For the end. Meredith. Meredith, he wanted. He was whimpering. He was actually whimpering.

She stroked him one last time. Everything pent up inside burst like an overfilled bubble. Pop. He thrust up into the air, into her hands, thrust, and thrust, and… roared. Roared as the tension swept through him like fire, kindled, kindled, exploding. "Mere!" he shouted, racked the word against his vocal cords in a furious, desperate frenzy as things tilted. The headboard creaked as he slammed all his strength into his arms and pulled, pulled, desperate. He felt the release. Felt it happening. It sent him back against the bedspread, curling, moaning. He felt the release. Pleasure hammered through him, set his teeth on edge. He felt the release. He felt it.

But it never ended. The dip into relaxed stupor that usually came afterward… It never came.

When enough sense returned to allow him to interpret the mixed signals his body was sending him, he moaned in frustration. Moaned. Swallowed. He was still stiff, still her prisoner, shaking, tension strumming every muscle like the sinews were guitar strings, stuck somewhere on a much higher plateau than he'd started on. She held her finger pressed firmly against him. He twitched, panted. "You're mixing. Mixing tips," he managed before he threw his head back against the pillow, heaved a breath, and tried to ease the sexual frustration now holding his limbs so tightly he thought he might break.

"Cumulative lesson," Meredith replied. He couldn't see her face, couldn't see… But he could feel the smile radiating from her like sunshine warming his face on a clear day.

Sex. Sex. He wanted. Finish. Go. Rut. Thrust. His thoughts were scattered all over the place like debris after a tornado, and still, he managed to chuckle, a raspy, raspy, weak little thing, but he chuckled. "Killing. You're killing. Me," he half-spoke, half-groaned. She started to stroke him again, and he just about lost his mind in the screaming din of flames that licked the inside of his skull in an explosion of desire.

He felt his eyes watering, felt Meredith's scrub cab soaking up his crying. He was crying. Not really crying. Just. Stuck in the prison of overwhelming… Everything. Need. Tension. Desire. Tension. Love. Tension. And he was owned. And he couldn't do anything without her permission right then. He was hers. He was hers, and it felt…

He moaned, long and low and virile in his throat. She pulled more noises out of him with each touch, each caress. He blinked, blinked against the frustrating, thrumming, strumming tension. He felt like a tuning fork, beaten. Shaking. And he couldn't stop moaning. She pulled him into another orgasm-that-wasn't with very little effort.

It felt like… Like he was falling. Like the bed had dropped out from under him, and he was floating. The rapturous explosion was much more… intense this time. He yelled and shook and writhed as it took him over the cliff, took him over, and for a blissful several seconds, he was nothing but the freefall, and then it all came crashing back again, crashing back into the tension, and he was stuck even higher up than before. It was maddening. She still held him, kept him from finishing. And he seriously doubted he would say no if she asked him something right then, anything, anything at all.

He sucked in breath after breath, trying to calm the knives slipping under his skin, making him twitch, twitch and moan, moan and groan, groan and make other embarrassing noises. He pulled at the tie that kept his wrists crossed, kept him from lunging off the bed and making off with her into the din of sexual heat, making her come and twitch and shiver and scream beneath him, making her burn for him as he finished. Finish, finish, finish. Why couldn't he finish? He wanted to. Wanted her. Wanted her body wrapped around his erection, wanted her depth, her warmth, her slick insides sliding along his burning skin, tight. He wanted to lunge for her and crush them both under the slamming anvils of need that were pounding him into a state of writhing, flailing, confused sort of lust. Finish, damn it. Why not? He pulled, pulled, pulled, groaned, shook, and he still couldn't move. She sat on top of him, working him, working him again. Working him into a third bit of earth-shattering, glorious hell. Somewhere along the line, he'd started begging her to let him finish, begging in a kind of nonstop… Murmur. It was nonsensical. He didn't understand what he was saying. Why?

She sent him over again with careful, prolonged stroking. "Mere," he yelled until his lungs ran out of air and he hurt, hurt trying to fill them back up with air that would keep him breathing, keep him conscious. It felt. So. Good. So good. So good, so good, so good.

The third time he recovered, he could barely move, save for the bouncing, forceful thrusting that he just. Couldn't. Stop. He lay there, completely at her mercy, shaking tension pulling him into a sucking well of desire interwoven with pain interwoven with pleasure in a huge, sprawling tapestry of confusing, conflicting feelings. It felt so fucking good, and so fucking awful all at the same time. It was the strangest sensation he'd ever experienced, to orgasm but not to… not to finish. The tie was the only thing keeping him on the bed, the only thing keeping him from lunging at her and sucking her down with him into the well of fire she'd doused him in. He strained against her, pleading. Pleading. Pleading.

He'd never been there before. Never been helpless in the bedroom, not like this. He was Derek Shepherd. Derek Shepherd. And he knew he was good at sex. Knew it. Knew it innately by the way the Meredith reacted to him, by the way Addison had reacted to him. It was his thing. He loved sex. He loved sex, and he was fucking good at it.

He was Derek Shepherd. And he'd never… never… Never been at someone's mercy so utterly and completely. Meredith was responsible for him. She held him in her hands, held the power to hurt, the power to let him loose, the power to satisfy… He couldn't do a thing about it, but somewhere, underneath it all, he knew she would, knew he would eventually get his final release, eventually get his reward. And it was. Thrilling.

The wondering. When would it be? How much longer could she do this to him? "Please," he whispered, low and harsh and throaty. "Please, let me," he said, panting, his breaths sluicing from his lips like broken raindrops. "Please." His voice twisted in the air. He sounded like some sort of crazed, whining animal.

She cupped him, and he jerked, jerked toward her warmth, trying anything and everything to get closer to her. She moaned. "You're making me so wet, Derek," she said, her voice a strained, whining whisper.

Something thin and firm and damp slipped across his mouth, strumming his lower lip. A finger. Two fingers. The taste of her sank down into his mouth. He licked his lips, licked her fingers, sucked, frenzied at the touch she was finally allowing him. He wanted more. Wanted, wanted, wanted.

He was Derek Shepherd. He was owned.

And he was discovering that he loved it.

"Do you want me to let you come?" Meredith said as she pulled her hand away from his mouth.

"Yes," he whined. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. He rolled against the bonds. He was slick with sweat. His palms felt slippery. He couldn't see, but everything was sparking anyway. He grunted as he twisted. She shifted again. He heard the shutter-click of his phone, but he was beyond caring.

"Are you begging?"

"Yes," he said. "Yes, please. Please. Please, please, please, Meredith."

His rasping breaths were torturous against his throat. She shifted, grunted. He heard the sound of plastic crinkling. There was a pop. A cold, wet feeling spread across his chest as she ran the flat of her palm against him, and suddenly the scent of lavender was overwhelming him, making him drunk. He jerked at the sudden sensation, and then he laughed, low and twisted and breathless when he figured out what she was doing. New and fun uses for her favorite conditioner… He pictured her showering with it, rubbing it into her long, wet, dirty-blond locks, and he watched as the suds slipped down over the curve of her breasts and low, low, lower. She trailed a finger down her torso, slipped it between her legs, and he moaned, moaned at the sunspot flares of imagery the scent was pelting at him.

"Do you like to watch me when I shower?" she whispered.

"I like it," he admitted.

"You like to join me, too."

"Oh, yes."

She blew onto his chest, and the chill as some of the conditioner evaporated made him shiver from the tips of his toes all the way to his bound wrists. Holy hell, she was… He fell over into the next wave without her even touching him, touching his length, save for the finger that firmly kept him from spilling in the literal sense. So good, so good, so good.

"Mere, please," he said, hoarse, his throat no longer cooperating. It was too much. He had to finish for real, or he was going to burst.

"Do you want to be inside me?" she said.

"Yes," he moaned, but opening his mouth just let more of the lavender sweep down into him, filling him up like a drug. His breaths shuddered. He coughed, blinking out more tears as she held him prisoner in the abyss of pleasure, but just on the brink of torture.

After a long pause, a pause that held him twitching, whining, moaning for her, she finally gave him what he wanted. "Okay," she said.

He felt her slide down his length with ease. She'd been keeping herself as wet as he was hard, and he sucked in a breath as she clenched around him. He tilted his head back. He couldn't think. Couldn't think. She started to ride him, moaning his name. "Derek, Derek, Derek," she chanted, and it was like music, almost operatic to his ears. "You're so hard. You're so hard. You're mine, Derek."

"Yes," he groaned. "Yes, yes. Mere."

The bump and grind of her body against his melded with his own perilously out-of-control thrusting. He couldn't hold still for her, couldn't let her have complete control. Because he just. Had. To move. She was hot. Hot and tight and sliding up and down and his. His. All his. Except he was completely hers. And he didn't want it any other way.

"You're mine," she whispered, reaffirming the wisps of his thoughts.

She gasped, moaned, and fell against him as she finished. Her finger drifted away, nerveless, finally, finally releasing him. He closed his eyes, felt the smallest tremor rumble deep in the pit where of all his muscles hung, suffering. Everything seized up and tensed into a rigid block of stored frustration. He arched back against the bed, held in a snapping, tense curl of unreleased… Everything. A second ticked by. Meredith panted softly against him, already done, waiting, running her fingers along his skin, encouraging him. He was already in the pull, couldn't do much more than hang there by his wrists as it took him into its undertow. By second number two, he'd already climbed the mountain, was standing at the pinnacle, breath held tightly in his chest. The fall. The fall. Where was the fall?

By second three, he had his answer, and he was gasping, gasping as the swell of pleasure yanked him into a billowing pit of lavender-scented white noise. The flash was brilliant, like a solar flare, or a mushroom cloud. The blindfold made no difference. Everything brightened. He groaned, the intensity of it gripped him in such a fury that his breath wouldn't come to him. "Mere," he managed, but the rest was lost as he became a twitching pile. He felt himself spilling into her, throbbing, and he practically choked on the relief that coupled with the euphoria in a twisted, pulsing dance. So good, so good, so good. He hung, stuck in the thrum of it for a long, long time.

Until, finally, he could breathe again, and the blindfold made things simmer down into black, not white. He sighed as Meredith toyed with the hair on his chest, still slick with the remnants of her conditioner. He pictured her lying there against him, flushed with recent sex, glowing, sweaty. Faint lavender curled against his nose. He lay breathing, arms dangling loosely from the bonds, which were the only thing keeping them up.

He swallowed, let his eyes dip shut as she slid off him and curled up next to him. She undid the tie, and, unsupported, his arms flopped down. He didn't bother to remove the blindfold. That would require movement.

"Experiment successful, I'd say," Meredith replied. "Are you still alive under there?"

"No," he whispered. His throat hurt, but everything else… Everything else was humming, and he just wanted to bask. His eyelids started to droop.

"Okay, just checking."

She pulled the blindfold back when he didn't remove it on his own. He blinked at the sudden, spearing light, but it settled after a few seconds into something more comfortable. She lay against him, looking up at him, her eyes twinkling. "That was okay, right?" she asked when he didn't say anything. "You looked pretty okay."

"Oh, yes," he said, blinking lazily at the ceiling. Pretty ceiling. He was starting to chill, but he didn't. Want. To move. His eyelids started to droop again when she didn't fill the silence. Her soft breaths soothed his ears. Her fingers made twisty lines along his skin, gentle.

"I love you," she said. "Fiancé."

"I love you, too," he managed.

"You weren't going to do the knee thing at Little Hawk whatever, were you?"

"Owl," he corrected. "No. I haven't had any time to plan something yet."

"Oh, good. I would hate to have wrecked that," she said.

"So, when I…" He breathed. "Do I get to tie you up? Or was this…" He closed his eyes and swallowed. "Just another way to show me I'm hopelessly yours…"

She shifted, and he looked down at her resting against his shoulder with a hooded, exhausted gaze. "You can do whatever you want," she said, grinning, as if she sort of wondered what all his nonsensical moaning had been about and really. Wanted. To try it. "If you can move again."

"I'll move in a minute."

"Right."

"I will."

"I think I wore you out."

"I'm just resting."

"Resting in a way that suggests you can't move," she said, her soft laughter buffeting his naked skin. Her finger ran along his pectoral muscle, up and down and up and down, and he fought hard not to fall into the dream that was tugging at him.

"I can move," he said. "I'm just… Being economical about it."

"Economical?"

"Saving up. Not being wasteful…"

The sweat was starting to evaporate, and he shivered, but he didn't want to deal with the tangle of sheets. His body was a weight. Dead. And he didn't want to pull the bedspread out. The notion of curling up and sleeping wasn't even attractive, because the curling part… Too much effort. Sleeping was good, though. Sleeping… He blinked. No, not yet.

She smiled. "Okay, move your arm."

"I'm thinking about it."

"Oh?"

"Yes, really hard," he replied. He really was getting cold. Needed to at least put something on. Something like. His thoughts trailed away when they took a right turn and the rest of him went left. What?

"You don't look really hard to me, Derek," she said.

He coughed. "Thinking," he said, trying to correct her. "Thinking hard."

"Thinking is hard? I know... Me Meredith. You Derek. Neanderthals had it easy, I'm telling you."

"Meredith," he said with a weak chuckle.

"Why don't you just let yourself go to sleep," she said. "You can tie me up when we get home."

"That a promise?"

She curled over him and kissed his lips, soft, a quick, habit thing, but it was still… Really great. He shifted. Just a little. Despite the effort. She was very warm. Very, very. Like a burner on a stove. Or his own personal sunshine. His own personal heavenly body. He wanted her closer.

"Yes," she said when she pulled away. "You naughty, naughty man."

"How is that naughty? I just want to share."

She grinned. "I like sharing."

"We share food. We share a bed. We're good at the sharing thing."

"Yes."

"I'll move in a minute," he said, breathing, trying to muster… Something. Anything. He couldn't recall the last time sex had… Done this. Not even the day before in the on-call room had been like this. He'd been able to get up when he'd forced himself. Now… No. Moving wasn't happening. "Then I'll share."

"You're being really mean to your penis. It looks worn out to me."

"No, no, trust me," he assured her. Because he would move. He'd figure out how. In a minute. The whole tie thing… It was really pretty brilliant. He had to show her. Had to… God. He wanted her again, but he really just… "It very much likes being overused. It's just cold."

"It's not the cold. I think it's tired."

He turned to her and quirked an evil grin at her. "Touch me and find out."

"Derek…" she said, laughing. She kissed him again. He inched closer. So warm. "Naughty." She sighed. Her voice dipped down into something serious, and she captured him with a hooded, gray, satisfied, happy stare that just… Lit her up. "Thanks for the Manhattan tour. And the ring. And everything."

"Thanks for saying yes, and meeting my family, and the sex, and everything."

"You can't thank me for the sex," she replied. "That wasn't a one-sided thing."

"We share."

"We do."

"When we get home," he said, "I'm definitely tying you up."

She snorted. She ran her fingers down his side in a soothing, flat-palmed, comforting motion. "So, you admit it's not happening tonight then!"

"It might be. In a minute."

"You're in Egypt, Derek."

"Really, I'm good."

"You're amazing. But I think I killed you."

He might have replied to that. He might have. But exhaustion finally beat him into submission, and he fell asleep to the scent of lavender, her warm skin burning against his like a furnace, and a soft smile that wouldn't stop pulling at his lips.

She definitely owned him.

Definitely.

It was nice.


	32. Chapter 30

Derek hated planes. Meredith frowned. Derek hated planes, and she'd forgotten all about it. Derek hated planes, and, now, as a result of the accident she hated but couldn't regret, he had a condition that had already proven itself more than once to give him boosted levels of anxiety. She frowned harder, hard enough that it slipped into all the muscles of her face, and it made her teeth hurt.

They'd checked the leftover Xanax, and they'd thrown out the meclizine. The latter, that was fine. The former… She was beginning to realize that that had been very, very stupid.

How could she have let that happen? Derek… Derek didn't like the Xanax, didn't like the way it made him feel, didn't like the way it dictated things for him. He'd stopped taking it when the memories had stopped pelting him. Xanax was for preventing panic attacks, loosening him up a little. It made sense that he'd stopped taking it. She hadn't pressed him about it. The memory thing was over, and he'd seemed… Mostly fine. Easily agitated, but… Fine. Of course he would have wanted to check the Xanax. Because that was saying he didn't need it. And, of course, he would say he didn't need it. Hell, he would probably say he didn't need it and actually somehow think he really didn't, even if he did. He was horrible at self-assessing his state of health. Horrible at it. Which she continued to find surprising.

But she knew. She knew now that he was horrible at it. And that just made it more abysmal that she hadn't remembered, because she knew he was horrible at self-assessing. Wasn't that what a partner was supposed to do? Pick up the slack, fill the gaps, be… yin to the yang or whatever? She should have remembered, should have remembered how stiff and stilted he'd been on the flight out to New York, and she should have realized that it would potentially be a whole lot worse on the return trip. She should have moved the Xanax back into her carryon when he wasn't looking or something. Anything.

She should have remembered that Derek hated planes.

She'd started to notice something was wrong about thirty minutes into the flight, which had been about twenty minutes before the tense, horrible moment she found herself in now, watching him suffer. He'd been quiet since the plane had started moving down the runway. And that wasn't like him. He talked. He cracked jokes. He made flirty, disarming banter into an art form.

He'd been very talkative all morning. They'd gotten up early to drive Sarah's car to her upscale row house and catch a cab from there. Sarah still hadn't gotten home with Stewart and their kids by the time they had arrived, and so, after Derek had dropped his sister's car keys through the mail slot, they'd sat on the front stoop, enjoying the morning, the view of Central Park, the decent weather and… the pictures. He'd spent the moments while they'd waited for the cab staring at his phone, the beep, beep, beeps as he'd scrolled through the gallery photos marking off wider and wider expressions of glee on his face.

"Is that?" he'd asked, tilting the phone to the side.

She'd peered over his shoulder and grinned. "Yes."

Beep. He'd changed the phone orientation again. "And this?"

Her grin had become a laugh. "Yeah."

"Wow." Beep. "What about this one?" he'd said. He'd had to orient the phone upside down.

"Yup," she'd responded cheerfully.

He'd been silent, making cute little false starts of words and scattered syllables in a very uncharacteristic fashion for a few moments. "You're very flexible," he'd finally settled on when he'd gotten to the second to last snapshot. "Very." And then he'd swallowed and breathed and blinked in a way that said aroused. Very aroused. "How come I never get to see you do that?"

"Because when do I ever need to masturbate when you're around?" she'd answered, which had apparently been the right thing to say because he'd just about puffed up like a peacock and preened for her. "And if you make wallpaper for your laptop out of those, I might have to castrate you," she'd added. "I'm a surgeon. I know how."

He'd smirked at her. "Remind me never to let anyone borrow this phone. Or I might have to castrate **them**."

After taking a brief moment to line up her props for the night by the bed, the tie, the conditioner bottle, the scrub cab, and a few other things, she'd taken about twenty shots while he'd been in the shower. Twenty shots of herself in various stages of arousal, from the beginning, when she'd been warm but not hot yet, imagining him taking off her clothes and touching her with his skillful, surgeon's hands, to the near end, just before he'd come out of the bathroom in that delectable, loose, fluffy towel. By that point, she'd been burning, burning for him to touch her in someplace outside her mind, to have him filling her up with himself. She'd throbbed with desire for something real to be there where she'd imagined him. Throbbed. And she'd captured it all on his phone for him. Twenty slices of moments from a continuous, building crawl toward euphoria. She'd immortalized herself at various angles, in various locations, at varying distances from her body, and she'd been rather pleased with the results. He'd seemed to be as well.

But when he'd gotten to the last photo, he'd stilled. It had been a rather graphic one of him, very tied up, very… aroused. Very… moaning. She'd managed to keep herself out of the shot. It was **all** him. "That one is for me," she'd whispered hesitantly when he hadn't said a word.

For a moment, she'd wondered if that had perhaps been a mistake, capturing him forever in such a vulnerable, potentially embarrassing state. But after long moments of silence, he'd just shrugged and grinned. "We can move it to your phone later."

She'd smiled, not wanting to press his hesitancy or question his decision to let her go with it. The fact that he, Derek Shepherd, the Derek Shepherd, man of absolutely no humility whatsoever, well, not much, anyway, had chosen not to comment or protest…

That had been a defining moment for her. Derek Shepherd loved her, wanted to marry her, and was willing to let her… Do that. To him. To virile, powerful, arrogant him.

And that had said a lot of things to her.

Things that had made her smile with a creeping sort of giddiness, still made her smile. Smile, and love him just a little more, which she hadn't realized was possible. It had been a zinging, tips-of-her-toes-to-the-tips-of-her-fingers sort of elation. She loved him more.

The point was, though, that he'd talked. He'd talked her ear off as they'd gone through the terminal. Despite the hustle and bustle of the crowd, the stress of going through security, of dealing with yet another grouchy cab driver and another lemony cab, it'd been really pleasant. He'd been fine, and chatty, and cheerful, despite the fact that his movements weren't nearly as fluid as they should have been. He'd been fine, obviously still healing a little, but fine.

Then he'd gotten on the plane.

Now, he wasn't talking at all, they didn't have his Xanax, and it was bad. Very, very bad. And she was angry with herself for not noticing sooner. When his chatter had ceased, that should have been the only clue she needed. But, no, she'd just assumed he was tired, that the week was finally catching up with him too quickly for him to sprint ahead of it. It had been when one of the flight attendants had gone past with the first round of drinks, and she'd found herself having to reply for him, no thank you, that she'd realized he wasn't just suddenly figuring out he was tired. He was terrified.

She glanced at him, still trying to decide what to do. His face was pale, colorless almost. His hands were shaking. And, while he sat rigid and still, his skin buzzed with little, barely-there tremors, reminding her of a pinwheel fluttering lightly as it tried to catch the breeze or something. It was making her ache just watching him. He was trying to read a magazine, but his eyes… Every time a glass would clank or a baby would scream or someone would say something in a raised voice, he would twitch, lose his place, and then it would take him a full minute or so to resume the back-and-forth eye movements that indicated he was at least attempting to read if not absorbing the subject matter.

She reached out and touched his hand, which felt more like a block of ice than flesh. The tremors were the only thing making it seem remotely like a piece of living person. She actually had to remind herself that this was Derek. Her Derek. Her Derek was usually so warm… He sucked in a breath and leaned back against the seat as his whole body shifted with pent up… Stuff.

"Hey," she said.

He rolled his head to face her. His Adam's apple rippled down his throat. His gaze… She caught a glimpse of sharp, fathomless blue before he squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm fine," he said in a tiny, whispery, barely there voice that said under no uncertain terms that he was not. He was not fine. Not. At. All.

"You're shaking, Derek," she whispered.

"I don't hate planes," he replied, grunting as the remaining air racked out of his lungs and he reached up to curl his fingers through his hair. A tiny sound rumbled deep in his throat. Tiny. Barely audible above the roar. The roar. The engine roar.

"It's just the roar, I know," she said, trying to soothe him.

"He's not going to go psycho is he?" said the stupid teenager who sat propped against the view port over the window seat. He was a small, wiry, freckled, redheaded guy who hadn't had the benefit of a growth spurt yet, which made him look puny, immature, and just… Annoying. In that moment, Meredith hated him.

Derek rocked a little in his seat. He leaned forward, curled up over the tray table, and collapsed his face into his hands. "I'm fine," he said, his voice low and throaty as he spoke through the gap between his palms. His shoulders jerked as he panted, and he made the tiny, twisting sound again. The sound that wasn't a word or a groan or a moan or anything of the sort. It was just… A solidification of his terror. And it felt horrible as it jammed up against her eardrums.

"He's fine," Meredith snapped at the kid. "And you? So not helping."

The kid shrugged. "Dude looks wrecked." But then he shifted, slipped his headphones on, and rudely removed himself from the conversation despite the damage he'd done. Meredith glared, but… But… Whatever.

She turned back to Derek. Meredith leaned against him and ran her palm up and down his back. She paused to check his pulse at his neck, not even trying to hide the concern underneath the guise of petting. His heartbeat thumped back against her fingertips like an angry, wild, living thing trying to punch out from under his skin in a tantrum. It was racing to the point that he had to feel it. Had to hear it throbbing in his ears. And it couldn't in any way be helping.

"Derek," she whispered, leaning close to his ear, trying not to let the fear leaking out of him slip into her. They couldn't both freak out. And he was… He was bad. Having an anxiety attack on the plane… That would be catastrophic. There was nowhere to go… Nowhere to escape to… Maybe she should call a flight attendant over. Surely, they kept emergency medications for this sort of thing? Maybe… But how would Derek feel about that? He'd probably feel worse.

"Derek, you have to breathe. Okay? Breathe."

He tried. He really did. The thing about anxiety attacks, though, was that a lot of times, the victim didn't really have control over it. They weren't something that could necessarily be calmed down, not through conscious action, and that was part of what made them so scary. Sometimes, they happened for no obvious reason at all. Telling him to breathe… She wasn't sure how effective that would be. His body was telling him I AM SCARED. And the rest of him was stuck along for the uncomfortable ride.

She flipped back the seat arm that separated them and wrapped her arms around him. He gulped down a breath. Another. She splayed a palm on his chest and started to rub in slow, slow circles. What was she supposed to do? He wasn't there yet. Wasn't in the grips of a full-blown attack, but he'd been getting worse in the time it'd taken her to realize there was a problem. He was getting worse now. What was she supposed to do?

What…

Distract him, a tiny voice said. Distract him. With what? Well, duh, the tiny voice answered. Hello? If there was one thing that routinely flummoxed him, it was Meredith. She rarely saw Derek Shepherd speechless, and usually when it happened, it involved something with her. Maybe she could… Get him to respond. Get him to start thinking about her and not about the plane. Maybe. It was worth a shot.

She rubbed her knee up against his, grinding, smooth, in a gesture that would have screamed sex me up if it hadn't been for the fact that he sat rigidly enough to be part of the metal seat fixtures, if it hadn't been for the fact that he was so intensely upset that he almost didn't seem to notice she was touching him. Okay… Maybe… Something a little more… Visceral. She nipped his ear and smiled for the both of them.

"Did we ever decide who took advantage?" she asked as she pressed into him.

He breathed once, twice, a third time, four. "What?" he finally managed.

"That first night," she clarified. "Did we ever figure out who was more drunk?"

He grunted, shook his head, and his eyes squeezed shut. "I don't…" A whoosh of air sucked his voice away in the tumble of it. He leaned his face into his palms and slid his elbows along the tray table. Wreck, wreck, wreck, her brain said. He needed help. She had to get him to focus on her. Focus on her and not the fact that he was in a plane and miserable.

Running her hands along the block of tension that was his shoulder, she whispered… "You remember? I was in that little black dress you like so much. And you were wearing your sexy red shirt, and your cologne was just... I forgot your freaking name. Don't I get points for that? I should get points for that."

"I…" He swallowed. "I never knew yours."

"And yet you still had no problem screwing me? I think I win. You so took advantage."

"You were..." He stopped talking, stopped talking and swallowed, blinked, clenched his fists.

"What was I, Derek?" she prodded. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me, damn it. She thought hard. Maybe if she thought hard enough, he would listen. He had to listen. Because if this got a lot worse, she was going to call the flight attendant, even if it made him hate her. He needed to calm down. This wasn't healthy. He needed to –

One moment, he'd been trembling. The next… A surreal sort of peace spread over his features. He sighed. Deep and calm, like a slow tide in the moonlight on a quiet beach. His shoulders rose with the inhalation, and his whole body unwired itself with the exhalation. He looked at her and he smiled.

In that moment, in that perfect moment, Derek Shepherd wasn't on that plane. Derek Shepherd wasn't on that plane, and the expression on his face alone kidnapped her senses and dunked her into his fantasy right along with her. She smiled back as the bar unfurled around her like a tapestry.

"You were beautiful," he whispered as his tone dipped down into something rich and reverent and full. Relaxed.

She felt a twanging curl of heat spread through her as his gaze peeled everything away from her. She felt… naked. Like he was peering into her soul. A deep, hooded look of pleasure pulled his eyelids down over his desirous, twinkling gaze, and his stare narrowed, relaxed. Relaxed. Relaxed.

She leaned against him, forehead to forehead, and breathed. He smelled good. And his skin was warming up, pinking up. She kissed him lightly before pulling back, but only just. Their noses mashed, their skin touched. The honeyed calm between them stayed, hovering like a blissful fog. It was like drifting in molasses, but it was a good sort of sluggishness. A sort of sluggishness that made the world slow down for the good stuff.

"I can't function when you're that pretty," he said against her lips. "Which is always. I think I win."

"I think you functioned plenty," she said, nipping at him. "At least… four times. That I recall."

"You remember… the count..."

"You don't?"

"No. No, I just…" His voice trailed away. His eyes closed, and he was lost in some long gone moment, long gone except for somewhere in his head, and probably somewhere in hers. A smile curled his lips before he paused to lick them in an almost hungry gesture. Hungry, yes. But not for… food. A low, throaty moan rumbled out of him. Derek Shepherd was definitely not on that plane.

"You just…" she prodded, trying to force him deeper into the memory, to get him away from all this… plane stuff. The look of pleasure on his face was… gorgeous. Her insides tightened.

Bad. Stop it, she thought. Naughty. No jumping nervous Derek on a plane. No.

But he looked so hot when he was daydreaming like that…

The speaker overhead crackled and whined, and the pilot started muttering out of it, started rambling about the weather in Seattle, and how they were actually running early, which the pilot seemed ecstatic about. Ecstatic. Except Meredith wanted to run up into the cabin and punch him for opening his damned mouth.

Derek flinched at the intrusion of sound into their private island of nostalgia, and the calm that had advanced a step took a huge a leap backward into a dark abyss, where it committed hara-kiri in a screaming pile of blood and gore, and left Derek a messy heap of nerves again. She gritted her teeth. He'd been so good for those few moments. So good. And now it was all ruined. He looked down at his tray table and swallowed, grunting harshly against the air as it twisted through him. His fingers curled through his hair once, twice. "I don't hate planes."

"You're fine, Derek. Just keep breathing. What were you thinking about before?"

"I don't…" He closed his eyes, and his whole body shuddered as he visibly forced himself to… Get back into his head. "I don't remember how many times."

"Seriously?"

"Wasn't counting," he replied gruffly, and then a slow, hesitant, gorgeous smile spread across his face like someone had slathered it with a warm butter knife. He breathed, leaned into her neck, inhaled her, and spoke, his soft voice rumbling into her neck. "I just liked… Being happy again."

"Oh," she whispered as her breath fell away from her.

"You smell good," he rumbled, his face buried in her hair. The words felt good against her scalp, against her neck. He pushed into her, nuzzled her, gifted her with a throaty almost… purr. More of a growl really.

But then the ambiance of the plane sprouted sharp, pointy teeth. Derek grunted and pulled away from her as the tinny, screeching sound of one of those stupid handheld video devices filtered back through the gaps between the seats in front of them. She tilted forward, trying to see around the bodies and the seat backs and the blankets and pillows and everything else in the way. A sharp glare speared her eyes as the little offending device shifted in the hands of some stupid adolescent sitting between two older adults. She blinked.

Hadn't people heard of headphones? Only by grinding her molars into near paste did she resist the urge to lunge over the seat, reach down to the stupid kid in the row in front of them, and commit an act of strangulation. Couldn't they tell the man behind them was freaking out? Meredith winced at the crinkling, breaking sound of an explosion that tinkled out of too-small speakers, and she felt hate writhing through her. Watching a movie with no headphones on a plane? Not cool. Watching a damned action movie? Even worse.

Her mind wandered to earplugs as she ran her fingers up and down Derek's arm. Earplugs. He had earplugs somewhere, didn't he? She snored. And he needed them to sleep. Well, he'd needed them before. This last week, he'd been sleeping heavily enough that she doubted he'd bothered with them. But she knew he carried them with him somewhere. Had he checked them, or were they in his carryon luggage? She thought about pushing past him to route through the overhead bins.

"I'm fine," Derek muttered breathily, ripping her away from her tangent. "I'm…" He looked at her and smiled, really smiled, only to wince again when a man a few rows behind them coughed, low and wet and mucousy. It was like watching a yo-yo. Like Derek just couldn't get completely into it again, into her, into the memories. Stupid pilot and his stupid screeching words. Stupid video. Stupid sick people. She'd been so freaking close.

"Well, maybe we should declare it a tie," she whispered, trying not to sound too defeated. At least he wasn't shaking anymore, well, not enough that she could easily see it. He wasn't… flipping out. He was tense. Yes. A bloodless, pale color bleached his skin. Yes. But she'd calmed him down out of an imminent panic attack, and that was… Something. Something to be thankful for. "I forgot your name, you were stuck in bliss… Drunk on different things, but… Drunk."

"A tie."

"Yeah."

"Okay," he said. He leaned his head back against the seat and sighed.

"Good to have that finally settled," she replied, smiling at him. "Don't you think?"

He turned to look at her and regarded her for a moment. The skin around his eyes pinched up, and he stared at her like he was… Drowning. Help me. Maybe she imagined it. Maybe. She really doubted he would ever ask out loud. He shifted in his seat. Shifted like…

"I have to get up," he whispered, hoarse, upset. Not fine.

"Okay," she said.

He shakily undid his seatbelt, stumbled up into a standing position, clenching the back of his seat between white knuckles and a sliding grip. He took a breath. Another. And then he moved off down the aisle toward one of the lavatories in the back of the plane. She frowned, trying not to watch as he disappeared, but it was useless. She was worried.

This wasn't healthy. It wasn't healthy, and maybe she really should ask one of the flight attendants if they had anything for his anxiety. Maybe. In a minute, she'd think about asking. Asking for him, because he wouldn't. He wouldn't ask.

While he was up, she stood and took the chance to go through their luggage. She couldn't find his freaking earplugs anywhere, not in the main compartment of his bag, not in the thousands of stupid pockets it seemed to house. He must have checked them. Or maybe they were in his wallet. Or something. But they were definitively. Not. In his carryon. Which sucked.

She paused when her fingers brushed the velveteen of her ring box. She couldn't help but smile. Married. She was getting married… At least there was that. Assuming this plane ride ever ended. At least there was that.

The soft caress of his palms against her hips drew her out of her reverie. She started, turned, and found Derek staring at her, inches away, breathing, close. She resisted the urge to jump him, not in front of all these people. "Hey," she said.

His eyes darted to her hands, which were still buried elbow deep in his bag. "Did you need something?"

"I was looking for your earplugs," she said.

He let loose a malcontented, twisting breath as he drew his fingers through his hair. "They're in my other suitcase. And I doubt they would help. Much."

"Oh," she said, the air deflating out of her like someone had poked her full of holes with a machete. "Sorry."

She zipped his bag back up and settled down into her seat. He collapsed next to her with a frustrated sigh and pulled out the magazine he'd been trying to read earlier. The pages fluttered before he set it down on the tray table, fluttered with the excess motion in his hands.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Better," he replied gruffly. Little bitty tremors still raced across his skin, and she could definitely see them when she focused on him, but at least his breathing had slowed to something less hyperventilatey, and he wasn't lying about being fine anymore. He seemed… more resigned to the suffering than anything else. Resigned, rather than ready to panic right out of his seat. She sat there stroking his arm while he tried to read, but he eventually gave up and leaned his head back against the seat. His eyelids drooped, and he rolled his head to look at her.

He breathed. "Meredith." He sounded miserable.

She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, lightly grazing his scalp with her nails. A light breath whuffed out of him, and he smiled, faint, barely, but still a smile. "That feels good," he said. And some of the tension that gripped his frame, forcing him into rigid, austere lines, relaxed, and he slumped ever so slightly in his seat. She kept doing it, for a minute, for two minutes, for three, until his eyes shut, his breathing slowed into the steady rise and fall of near slumber, and his pallor started pinking up again.

She stopped and took up one of his hands between her palms. Warmth had returned to his skin. His fingers flexed around her, and he peered at her with a half-lidded gaze. Everything calmed into a slump, and he sighed, deep and full and shaky, like his body was a vice, squeezing out the tension.

For ten blissful minutes, he had relief, and she rested, curled up against him, glad for those moments, glad for them while they lasted, glad that she'd delivered him back to that place not on the plane. That place where it was just him and her on a nice, tropical island. With palm trees. And a balmy breeze. And skinny-dipping. There would have to be skinny-dipping on this island.

A baby started crying four rows up from them. The mother dribbled frantic shushing sounds like raindrops, but the noise, piercing, wailing, loud, made even Meredith uncomfortable, and the progress she'd made with Derek dissolved before her eyes. He started to shift in his seat, agitated all over again. A flight attendant roamed through, checking for trash, upsetting him further when she brushed against him as she passed, and the shaking resumed not long after when the plane hit a brief pocket of turbulence.

He excused himself again.

She frowned, watching him go. When he disappeared into the lavatory, that was when the idea hit her. He really did seem to do much better when he was thinking about her, just her. Her original idea had been sound… It was just impossible to keep him focused with all the distractions around. But… She mulled over her options. There was a really good way to make him think about her, just her. A really. Good. Way. If she could pull it off. She frowned. She couldn't pull it off, could she? Plane sex was messy, and not nearly as hot as it sounded. There was a lot of barely moving, awkward crap because of the tight spaces, and, assuming there was any degree of success, she would be sitting for the rest of the plane trip in wet, uncomfortable panties. But…

_We could go try to join the mile high club. That might work to cure me._

She looked back, swallowing. There wasn't a line or anything. It wasn't far enough into the flight for everyone to be antsy. She darted her gaze left and right. The flight attendants were scattered. None of them were near the bathrooms. Window Seat Boy was listening to something, eyes closed. The tinny beat popped out of his headphones and littered the air around his ears with a faint tapping, and she doubted he would even notice the seats next to him were unoccupied.

She stood up and walked down the aisle, overwhelmed with sudden determination. She would fix this. She would do the gap filling yin thing. The door of the lavatory Derek had entered had just barely started to open when she plunged forward and shoved herself into it, colliding with him. He gasped. She supposed it might have been stupid, surprising him like this when he was already so agitated. But. Well. She'd seen an opportunity and she'd seized it. She was seizing it. Seizing. The. Opportunity. So, why did she feel like she'd just made a huge freakin' mistake?

They stood breathing in the tight space.

"Meredith," Derek said, his voice tight and tense and… uncharacteristically unhappy considering she was skin to skin with him. "What are you doing in here?"

"Well," she said, breathing, nerves biting into her conscious thoughts like piranhas and tearing her voice away from her. This was a mistake. This was obviously a mistake, because he had to ask. And wasn't it sort of a no-brainer? He was Derek. He didn't need directions. Not when he was in his right mind. Huge. Mistake. Huge mistake.

He was already upset. This would put pressure on him, and that could make things even worse. Especially if he found he couldn't… Couldn't… Oh, god. Oh, god. She was going to make things worse. And how insensitive of her was it to attack him on the way out of the bathroom when he'd actually been using it as a bathroom and not a sex closet? Frequent urination was a sign of agitation. He was agitated. And he wasn't happy to see her. And this was bad. Bad, bad, bad. She was a crappy yin. Yang. Yin yangy… Whatever. She sucked at filling gaps.

"Never mind. It was a bad idea. It was a horrible idea. Horrible. I… I shouldn't have… Are you okay?" she said.

He sighed and wrapped his arms around her. She felt his nose push into her neck. He let loose a breath that had an almost sobbing quality to it. "I'm fine," he said. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not," she said into his shoulder, the words muffled. The cloth of his shirt was warm against her mouth. His whole body shivered against her. She tried to soothe him, tried running her fingers through his hair, tried running her nails along his scalp. That had worked well before.

He clutched at her. At least his trembling seemed to be calming down again. And his grip wasn't quite so… desperate. "So," he said, breathing, breathing, breathing. "How does this… How does this mile high club work?"

"We don't have to," she found herself replying. Actually, at this rate, she would really be surprised if they even could. At all. "You're nervous. And you… You're nervous. And we don't exactly have a ton of time--"

He kissed her, cutting her off. But it was a hesitant, trying-too-hard kiss that was far from confident. Far from the person he usually was in the bedroom. The one that knew exactly what he wanted. Her. Exactly how to make her scream. Him. His lips jerked along hers in a hitching motion, almost like a rubber ball bouncing to a stop, like he wanted contact, wanted it badly, but was terrified to follow through with it and kept pulling back, sort of.

And that was scary. Scary that he was that nervous. There was no way this was going to happen. No way. And he was going to be embarrassed when he couldn't get himself hard for her. And it was all her fault. Because then he'd panic even worse. And this was just… Bad. It was bad.

"It's supposed to be a quickie, then?" he whispered.

"Technically, it should be."

"Technically."

Meredith nodded. "Yes, technically."

"What if I don't care?"

"About?"

"No one will notice. There wasn't even a line," he murmured. He unbuttoned his jeans, took her hands, and guided her underneath the waistline of his boxers. She felt him. He wasn't aroused. At all.

"Derek, what are you doing?" she whispered.

"Trying to convince my penis that I'm not terrified right now," he said, his breath soft and warm against her neck. "You're sort of an integral part of that plan."

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him in a tight embrace as he started to shift, started to rub up against her fingers. Touch me. Touch me. Touch me. His body language was clear. He kissed her throat, a little more sure of himself as she flexed her hands and touched back, let him know she was in this, in this and willing. He licked, and sucked, and teased, and it felt good enough that she moaned for him, moaned long and low. His grip clenched, and his roaming kisses firmed up from something that guessed to something that knew as he inched closer to cocky Derek. She'd never realized how much she liked cocky Derek until he was missing.

"You're sure you're okay?" she asked.

He nipped at her, playful, and let loose a shaky, warbling laugh. "No. But I'm all for trying."

"I just… I'd understand if you can't. I mean, I know it's hard. Difficult. I meant difficult. To get hard. When you're upset. That time I meant hard. And I need to shut up now. Except I seem to be speaking still, and I--"

"Mere?"

"Yeah?"

"You're really not helping."

"Oh. Sorry. Want to come back later?"

"No. No, I just need…" His voice trailed away.

He slipped his hands under her shirt, pushed her bra up over the curve of her breasts, and cupped her. His hands were icy, and she tried desperately not to flinch, but as he massaged her, as he soaked up her warmth, the motions became more than okay. She moaned. Moaned and twisted into his touch. He loosed a low, breathy chuckle, and then his lips were on hers, and he pushed her flat up against the wall.

He groaned into her, groaned and pushed up against her groin, crushing her hands between them. She twisted her fingers and gripped him, started to stroke him up and down. He wanted help, she'd help him. She tried not to get concerned when nothing happened. Nothing. He was rocking with her motions, pushing into her hands, and he was panty and groaning and straining. Heat. Fire. Friction. His breaths fell from his lips, quick and grunty and hot. She was definitely doing it right.

But… Nothing.

He leaned over her neck. His hair brushed against her cheek. The warm, salty trail of his tongue graced her clavicle, and she hissed out an aroused breath. He really was good at the kissing thing. He was. Oh. Oooh. She arched back into the lavatory wall and moaned, long, and whining, and desperate.

"Well, we seem to be making progress on you, at least…" he said after a long, panting silence. He laughed softly when she whined at him in response.

The pads of his thumbs ran across her nipples. She gasped as a low thrum of tension started twanging deep in the lower part of her gut, building, building. "Hmmm," she said in her best, flirty purr, forcing herself to focus and say words. Words that connected into a sentence that made sense. This wasn't remotely fair. This was supposed to be for him. "You're the one that needs this, Derek. I'm trying. I'm… What do you need? I'm…" Her voice trailed off into a moan as he kissed her again.

"It's good," he whispered. "You feel good, Mere."

Except he still wasn't… responding. Down there. He played her like a violin with his hands. He touched her. He roved his fingers and palms against her breasts, her abdomen, up and down in a wandering symphony of flaming sensation. He was definitely into it. Except… Not. Definitely not.

All at the same time. Tension racked his frame, but that was the only thing stiff about him. She ran her hand down the length of him. Felt the coarse curls of his hair as she palmed his groin and worked him, tried everything she knew he really liked that was doable in the very little space that they had. He sighed and pushed into her touch, pushed into it like a starving man. His short, tensing, desirous breaths laved her skin like fire as he worshipped everywhere his tongue could reach. But…

"Derek, if you can't…" she whispered.

"Give me a second," he said, panting. "I just need…"

"Derek, you're nearly forty, you're agitated," she said, suddenly frustrated that she was burning, burning, burning, and he wasn't even twitching yet in her grasp, frustrated that he was probably going to break something trying before he would admit he couldn't. "You may need more than a second. And we don't exactly have all year in here." And then she stopped. And then he stopped. Everything… Stopped. She stood there, her hands wrapped around his misbehaving anatomy, and he hovered, mid kiss, mid pet. He pulled back, breaths racked with low, grunty sounds that gave them a depth, a heaviness.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Of all the things to say… Guilt swept down into every crevice of her soul, and she swallowed and blinked back a sudden rush of tears. He wasn't twitching yet because for the past hour and a half he'd been scared out of his mind, barely able to function even in a nonsexual sense. And then she'd attacked him on the way out of the freaking bathroom, which he'd only been in because anxiety had made him need to pee. But he was being a good sport about it anyway. He was really trying, even despite what had to be obvious embarrassment that his body wasn't behaving like he wanted it to, and she'd wrecked it. You didn't tell a man in that position that he couldn't do it. Way to go. Way to fucking go.

She was really not doing well today.

"I'm sorry," she stuttered, thunking her head down against his shoulder as she tried to catch her breath. "That came out wrong."

He remained silent for a long moment. "Is that why you're upset?"

"Upset? What?"

"That I'm older."

"What?" she said, horrified. She didn't… He thought that she was upset about his age? She wasn't… When he'd asked, she hadn't…. She wasn't. She wasn't upset because he was older. She was upset because… Because… "No. No. I'm not. Not upset that you're… I told you it didn't bother me."

He was silent for another stretching moment. "It bothers you," he said, his voice deep and twisting.

"No, it doesn't. Not like that," she insisted. "Derek, I don't think this is going to work."

Frustrated, she pulled her hands out of his boxers and sighed, expecting him to button up and then they'd slink back to their seats in misery. Except he didn't move. He stared at her, his eyes narrowing as he regarded her darkly.

His voice was low and dangerous and wounded when he finally said, "I can get it up."

"I'm sure you can, Derek," she replied, trying to stitch up his bleeding ego. She wanted to cry. He was miserable, and she'd just inadvertently insulted him on the deepest level imaginable, and, well… It was bad. It was bad, bad, bad.

"But we both seem to be not in the mood, now, and… I love you. I love you so much. This was supposed to relax you, not make you hate me. And I'm doing a really bad, bad job of being your yin… gap filler… person. Thing. Whatever. I'm sorry. You satisfy me, Derek. You more than satisfy me. You make the ground under my feet shake. And I'm not wigged out that you're older. Not like that. Not like you're thinking. I'm sorry. I didn't mean… I'm sorry."

Moments ticked by in a long, marching stretch of quiet. The hum of the airplane suddenly seemed loud. So loud to her ears. Was this what Derek hated so much about planes? The roar he kept mentioning… She could really see how it might become a little maddening after a while.

She swallowed thickly, blinking tears away. She really hadn't meant to mess this up so badly. This was supposed to save him from an anxiety attack, not make him feel horrible about himself **and** have an anxiety attack to boot.

A clamor of voices outside the door distracted her. A flight attendant was discussing something. Something about drinks. And then her voice faded off as she thumped back down the aisle, her footfalls loud and hollow against the carpeted floor of the plane.

Derek watched her, still and tense.

"How then?" he asked, his voice low. Cautious. Hopeful.

"This really isn't a conversation for a lavatory, Derek. I… Please. Not now."

He stared at her for a long, long moment. She bit her lip. He was blocking the door. They couldn't… Leave. Until he left. She wouldn't push past him. He…

Lunged forward and kissed her, dark, angry, lusty, and… loving. All at once. It was a weird tumultuous confusion of signals as he pressed her back up against the wall and stormed across her lips.

"Derek," she murmured into his mouth as he sucked the taste of her down in a way that had her world shivering like the flicker of a flame atop a candle. Everything went out of focus. He was hot. Hot against her. And the sudden desperation in his movements…

"I can still make you come," he growled against her teeth as he kissed her.

The implications of his words were clear. He could crash her world down whenever he wanted. He didn't have to be anything other than there to make her into a mewling pile of lusty, thrusty nonthoughts. He owned her just as much as she owned him. And he didn't need an erection to prove it.

She really, really hadn't meant to gouge his ego so deeply.

But she didn't have more than about five seconds to think about it. His hands slipped down into her pants, underneath the fabric of her panties, into the warmth between her thighs. He'd made her wet and ready earlier with his attentions. Wet and ready and throbbing. And, though it had cooled briefly in the minutes following her stupidity, the desire swept back into her like a wrecking ball when he easily slid a finger inside and curled it forward against her g-spot. She just about lost her footing, but he caught her with the hand that wasn't strumming her like a harp.

"Oh," she gasped. "Oh, Derek. Please. Oh…"

He leaned down against her ear, his hot, short breaths buffeting against her. "Now, who's begging?" he whispered as he moved inside her. He petted her with his thumb, and the heel of his palm pushed up against the cushion of skin over her pelvic bone.

"Der, oh," she hissed. He pressed with his thumb, started roaming in slow, torturous circles, circles that had her grinding into his hand, trying to force more of that glorious pressure. "Oh. Oh, my… Oh."

He laughed. "They'll hear you if you keep that up," he said as he built her desire from within and without, brick by painful, torturous, splendid, outstanding, world-smashing brick. She bucked in his grasp. Every time his hand shifted, she wanted to die. Die and die and die and die.

"Then stop torturing me," she tried to say, only to have her voice melt away into a long, winding, shivery moan. He knew exactly where to touch her. Exactly where to focus to make her whine for him. Whine and… She jammed her lower body into him, tried to make him go deeper. "Right there. Oh, Derek. Derek. Derek. I can't… shut up. You… Oooh."

"You're so slick, Mere," he growled in her ear. "You're so hot."

He withdrew his fingers and pushed her pants down off her hips. The cool air made her twitch, but he eclipsed the shiver with the warmth of his skin. She moaned. Moaned. Moaned at the sudden abandonment. Nothing filled her. He was warm against her, but she felt… Empty. And she needed him. Needed him back inside her. "Please, Derek," she said. "I want you."

He shuffled awkwardly against her, grunting, breathing, very male, very close, very hers, but he'd left her, he'd left her throbbing, and she couldn't think. "Turn around," he said, his voice hoarse. "This won't work at this angle."

"What?" she asked, her world in a stupor of need. He'd abandoned her. He'd worked her into a vibrating pile of near explosion. And then he'd pulled out. Was this torture? Was this payback? She didn't know. She didn't understand words. "What… Angle. What?" she asked.

She felt his hands at her shoulders, forcing her to move, turning her toward the wall. They thumped and shuffled and collided with each other. He hissed. "Move, Meredith. I can't. There's no space. Move." He sounded as frustrated as she was. Frustrated. Why the hell was he frustrated? She was the one who should be frustrated. Hell, she was definitely frustrated. If he would just put his thumb back and do the circle thing some more, she would be all right. She whined as he managed to flatten her up against the wall face first, her back to him. She braced herself with her hands. Maybe he would start again. Maybe he would--

"Oooh," she moaned as he grunted, and she felt him slide up into her from behind. Not his fingers. Him. Hot and thick and ready.

He stood there panting, straining. She trembled against the wall. His hands gripped her hips. And she was full. So full. With him. "There," he said, his voice shaky and torn with… Need.

"You…"

"I?"

"Hard," she managed. "Fucking hard."

He laughed, throaty and… playful. And it was a beautiful sound. Beautiful. Her chest thrummed with the warmth of it. "You tend to do that to me, Mere."

She clenched around him and sighed. He fit her. He fit her so well. He shifted inside her, and he started to slide in and out in a slow, continuous wave of blissful motion. Every time he came back home, the tip of him scraped her g-spot, and it was… heaven. Heaven. Heaven. And she couldn't breathe. The power in her lungs leaked away as she fell into the crush of needing, needing him, wanting him. He filled her, and he fit, and she wanted him. More, more, more, she wanted. "Oooh," she gasped, tight, brittle, barely. She clawed the wall, clawed desperately. He was steel, and hot, and groaning. He sounded hot when he groaned like that. Hot and male. His musky scent wound around her, made her throb, made the blurry wall fade as the sparks started.

He leaned down over her neck and kissed her cheek. "You're a very. Good. Distraction," he said.

"Harder, Derek," she whined.

He put more force into his movements, more force. "I am," he said as he started lifting her weight off her feet with each pounding thrust.

"You… Oh, yes. Yes, you are."

"We need to be quiet, Mere," he said. "This is technically public indecency. I think."

Was he freaking kidding? He had to be freaking—Oh. She moaned, low against her vocal cords. Low and twisting. Her lower body felt like a coiled trip wire, ready to go. Ready. Ready.

"I'm trying. Quiet. I'm. Oooh. Oooooh. Help," she gasped. "I'm going to. Help," she said, squeezing her eyes shut. He figured out what she meant, at least. His palm clamped over her mouth. "I'm--" she managed, muffled into the warm, slick skin of his palm, and then she whined as everything exploded at once in a demolition of her senses. "Derek!" she yelled into his hand, barely able to cut back on the volume as the waves throbbed through her in tsunami-sized pulses. It felt. Good. So. Good. Good as the initial swell peeled her brain apart into dazed, unthinking sections of mindless, giddy euphoria. Better as the aftershocks hit in a series of humming, throbbing echoes that left the inside of her clenching around him in a desperate march of fluttering spasms. The best as the satisfaction dripped into her bones and gripped her in a stupor. A stupid stupor.

He finished shortly after. He twitched inside of her, and a damp warmth spread into her. He grunted, and his weight became heavier against her, pinning her between him and the wall as he curled over her and breathed, breathed, breathed.

"Meredith…" he moaned as the last of him spilled inside of her.

Thoughts. She tried to find them as she blinked. The room seemed dim. Or was that because her eyelids weren't working right yet? She couldn't tell. Blink. She blinked some more. "Oh, that was…" she whispered, panting, voice straining to come up with something that resembled projection.

He chuckled. "Good?"

"Really," she answered, sighing. "So, how're you?"

She felt him smile into her neck. "Really good," he whispered.

"Good."

They fumbled quickly to put themselves back together, buttoning buttons, righting clothes, wiping things off that were wet and sexed. It wasn't like the movies. Sex was messy. And making it look like you hadn't just had sex? Sometimes… very difficult. Especially when entire muscle groups were still not cooperating, and all she could think about was wow. Wow. Plane sex. Plane sex apparently wasn't necessarily bad. Plane. Sex. With Derek. Not bad.

By the time they stepped out of the lavatory, it had really only been a few minutes since they'd gone in, but it felt… like ages. And, despite how wonderful and buzzy and high she felt, she couldn't help but glance guiltily back and forth. Nobody looked at them. Nobody seemed to notice. And the lavatories still didn't have a line queuing up for them. She almost giggled when she realized they'd managed to fly completely under the radar. Completely.

Her and French Guy hadn't managed that. The people in the seats closest to the lavatory had given them odd looks as they'd stumbled back to their seats. And she had been pretty sure at least one flight attendant had noticed, but had been too embarrassed to knock and interrupt them. Then again, French Guy hadn't known her well enough to muffle her with his palm. So, maybe it wasn't surprising that they'd been noticed.

Derek made a good plane sex initiate, she decided. Damned good. Then again, when was Derek ever not good? He was… Really quite good. At the sex thing. And the kissing thing. And anything involving the whole mating gig in general. And being a boyfriend. And being a fiancé. And loving her. And apologizing, once he'd figured out he'd been a moron, at least, which, admittedly, sometimes took forever. And being a tour guide. Damn, he had a sexy tour guide voice. And performing surgery. And smiling. His smile was perfect. And buying rings. He was good at that, too. And letting her have naked, tied-up pictures of himself. And wearing blue. He wore it like royalty. Except that was purple, wasn't it? Whatever.

She had to stop herself when she felt a flutter pulse through her lower body. Not now. When they got home…. But not now. She felt a little squicky, a little in need of a shower, but… That had been worth it. Because, not only was every nerve in her body practically humming one of those heavenly choir pieces, but Derek was moving like a pleased lion, relaxed and striding and calm as he surveyed the aisle. Mission accomplished. Definitely not anxious anymore.

"So, how does it feel to be in the club?" she asked as they sat down.

He grinned. "Well, that's certainly one of the more interesting places I've done it. Not a lot of room to… work with."

"And messy. I'm taking a shower as soon as we get home."

"Do I get to join you?"

"Do you even need to ask?"

"Way to go, man. I'd tap that," Window Seat Boy interjected suddenly, ripping them from their private moment. Meredith swallowed. Okay, apparently not completely under the radar then. And since when was Window Seat Boy not asleep and listening to his stupid headphones?

Derek's smile collapsed into a glaring scowl. He leaned forward across Meredith. She squeezed his shoulder. Bad. Bad. Bad. Don't do it, she thought silently at him. He tensed, swallowed, and then he said, low and dangerous, "I'd be careful, little boy. She's very good with a ten blade."

Window Seat Boy's eyes widened. "Blade?" he whispered.

"Oh, yes," Derek replied, almost gleeful. "Cuts the skin like butter."

Window Seat Boy made a grunting, wheezing sound. He blinked. And then he went back to the shelter of his headphones and didn't look at them again. Derek smirked, and then he resettled.

Meredith's mouth fell open as she choked a little. "I can't believe you just said that. He probably thinks I'm a murderous, knife-wielding freak or something, now."

He looked at her.

"Okay," she amended. "I can believe you said it. But, Derek…"

He caught her lips in a quick kiss. "He went away, didn't he?"

"Well, yeah."

"Besides," Derek whispered. "You're my murderous, knife-wielding freak."

For a long second, they stared at each other. And then they laughed. Long and hard and happy. People looked at them, but she didn't care. Screw them. Not literally. But, yeah. Whatever. She kissed Derek. He tasted good. Really good. As they settled back into reading magazines and trying to sit still, Derek managed to stay calm and relaxed. He couldn't read. She watched him as he kept losing his place. But it was mostly because he kept stopping to look at her and smile wolfishly. Mile high club. Yeah, right. More like cloud nine club. Or shooting to the moon club. Or something else.

The rest of the trip proved to be very long, and very torturous. Just not for the reasons Meredith had originally expected.


	33. Chapter 31

**Author's Notes: I just wanted to thank everyone for the continued comments and feedback. It really makes my day to read such lovely comments and suggestions! If you're holding back, go for it. I promise I don't bite :) This part officially brings this story back home to Seattle. I hope you enjoy. I'm still not sure how much longer it will be, but I still have a few major plot hurdles to get through, so definitely at least a few more :)**

* * *

Meredith stared at her locker as the door squeaked open on its hinges. Her stethoscope hung from the hook at the top. Her smiling face peered back at her from the rear wall out of the small cosmetic mirror she'd tacked there with magnet clips. The rest of her things were in a disorganized heap at the bottom.

It had only been a week. Well, a week and a day, since she'd last stood there, albeit a lot more tired and a lot more grouchy and a lot more… worried. Only a week. But that week? That wonderful yet horrible week?

Felt like an infinite chasm dividing her life into the before and the after. The after that was starting. Now. Right now.

She felt like a stranger, standing there, grinning as she started slipping off her street clothes and pulling on a fresh pair of scrubs. Her smiling face in the mirror looked… odd. Odd all alone like that. She needed a good picture of Derek to tack up there. He was her fiancé. Fiancés deserved wall space for locker photos. Didn't they? That was a normal thing people did when they had significant others. Permanent significant others. Permanent… Forever… All that. Right? Yeah. She needed a good picture. Then again, with any luck, this would only be her locker for two more weeks. Maybe she should wait until she had a new home in the residents' locker room. Maybe.

A small voice said no. Now, now, now. I'm not alone now. I'm engaged now. I want a freakin' picture of my hot fiancé now!

She tried to suppress a chuckle as she yanked her lab coat off the top of the messy pile in her locker. Said suppressed chuckle ended up coming out as sort of a snort, only to bleed into low-pitched, snuffly laughter as she gave up. Maybe one of the New York pictures would work. If she could ever figure out how to get them off her phone. She raised the lab coat to her nose and sniffed it. Okay, that was getting washed later. But it was decent enough for one more shift. Did being a permanent significant other mean she got to make Derek do her laundry sometimes? Hmm. Definitely had to research that. But later. Because… Work. She had work now. A long shift.

One more long shift until she could go home again.

One more long shift, because she wasn't going to see the outside of Seattle Grace again until the next day, and because Derek wasn't there and wouldn't be for the duration. There was absolutely no hope of a chance encounter in a hallway, a break on the promenade, or, the gift of all gifts, doing casework with him.

Derek had called in sick for the next three days. He'd done it as soon as they'd walked in the door the day before, serving as testament to just how bad he was really feeling. The fact that he was willing to admit he was definitely not up for performing surgeries for at least three days up front… that was unheard of. Kind of like school snow days in advance of actual snow. She hoped it was just to catch up on sleep, and not because he genuinely felt like crap. He seemed… Mostly fine. Easily overtired, easily agitated. But… Fine. All things considered.

They'd gotten home in the afternoon when everyone had still been at the hospital, mid-shift. It had been the perfect opportunity for some more good sex and quality alone time. But they'd ended up taking the cooperative shower as a shower for cleaning purposes only and nothing else. By the time they'd fought the crowds at the airport, slogged home, lugged their bags in from the taxi, and gone over the logistics for the week, the torturous leftover desire from the plane trip had petered into joint exhaustion. The only reason there'd been showering at all was… plane sex? Still kind of gross, despite the fact that Derek had actually managed to make it good for her, unlike French Guy. Derek had made it long enough after said shower to throw on some boxers over his damp skin before he'd collapsed. She'd made it one step further and brushed her teeth, but she hadn't bothered to blow dry her hair or anything. She'd set her alarm for her shift, curled up next to him, and the lights had gone out. Literally.

They needed vacations to recover from vacations. And that was just assuming the vacation in question had been a real vacation. Not an anxiety-ridden meet-the-family extravaganza with a splash of terrifying mortal peril. If she could have called in sick with Derek, she would have. She wasn't quite sure how she was going to make it through the week. She was banking on the giddiness to prop her up, really.

The giddiness, though? Definitely a good drug, so far.

When the alarm had started shrieking that morning, she'd spent the first dreadful few minutes wishing she was deaf. Derek had groaned. The sheets had rustled as he'd shifted. For a moment, Meredith had lain there, just letting it go off, just letting it. Letting it. For the first time in just over a week, she had been in her own bed, in her own house, it had been warm and soft, Derek had been sprawled next to her, and she really hadn't wanted to get up. Work, she'd thought. She had to work. Work. That thing she hadn't done in over a week. Work.

A slam had ripped her from her denial of all things breaking dawn. She'd cracked open her eyes just in time to see Derek's alarm clock cascade to the floor with a crash, followed by his watch, his sunglasses, the ibuprofen pill bottle, his beeper, both of his cell phones, and a few other things. His hand had flopped uselessly against his nightstand. He'd groaned again. "Mere," he'd mumbled into the mattress before his head had disappeared under his pillow. "Alarm."

She'd finally woken up at that point, finally gotten up for the day. But, for the first time ever, she'd paused and just… Smiled. It'd all seemed so… Blessedly normal. She'd splayed her palm against his back, rubbed her hand along the curve of his spine, leaned down, kissed him, and finished putting herself together for her shift. Her long shift.

And that? That had been just…

Well, she wouldn't mind if it happened that way for the rest of her life. Minus the long shift bit. And, okay, she hoped, occasionally, that she would be the one sleeping in.

Engaged. She toyed with her naked ring finger and smiled. They were back in Seattle now. The Big Question had to be coming soon. He wouldn't keep her waiting. Would he? No. No, he was too excited. And he knew she was too excited.

She wondered what he would do. Maybe he'd think of some way to orchestrate a ferryboat proposal. That'd be romantic. And it would get the whole need-to-ride-a-boat thing done with. A proposal would make ferryboat riding more than okay again.

"I think she's manic," Izzie said in a cautious whisper somewhere behind her.

"What?" Alex said.

Meredith looked up in the mirror. The glaring white of a lab coat blurred in the space behind her, but the mirror was too tiny to show her anything definitive. She could feel them, though. All four of them behind her. Staring.

"Manic," Izzie replied. "She's all bright and shiny, now, but next thing we know? She's crashed, and the whole hospital is up in smoke because she's gone postal."

"She's been like this all week on the phone," Cristina interjected. "His family infected her."

"No," Alex said. "Somebody drugged the drinking water. It's speed."

Cristina snorted. "Speed is so nineties. She just got McFamilied," she said, the word McFamilied expressed with the same intonation and mood as if it were synonymous with something far less savory. Contaminated. Shot. Skewered. Decapitated. Killed.

McFamilied.

"Maybe she's fine," said George. "And this is just what we all act like when we've had sleep."

"That's impossible," Cristina said.

Alex said, "Nah."

"She went on vacation with Dr. Shepherd," Izzie said. "I doubt there was sleeping. Not if what they do every night when they're not on vacation is any indication."

"Yeah," Cristina said. "How did McFamily take that, anyway?"

Meredith sighed, turning from her locker to view her spectators as she finished straightening her lab coat over her scrubs. They all stood in an unsubtle line in front of her, already ready, adorned in pristine lab coats, pens in pockets, stethoscopes wrapped around their necks, peering at her like she was a strange lab specimen, all while they huddled in some sort of bizarre… doctor army formation. Thing. The bench separated them from her in a distinct her versus them arrangement.

But they were still her family. Her family. She felt the inexplicable urge to leap across the bench and yank them into a group hug. And that was weird. Because she was not a group hugging type person. At all. But…

Engaged. Her!

They were her family. And who else was she supposed to gush to?

"I'm right here, you know," she said, trying not to laugh and failing dismally. Giddy was definitely a good drug. "I can hear what you're saying."

She started fumbling with her ring finger again, and the smile just… Wouldn't go away. I'm engaged! she wanted to scream. Derek proposed! Hell, she wanted to shout it from the freakin' rooftops. She wanted to stand up on the bench and dance about it.

And she really needed a picture of Derek for her locker. Definitely.

Maybe he'd do it over the hospital PA system. No. Derek wouldn't do something **that** cheesy. Would he? No. He'd know she'd find that mortifying. Or she would have. Before. Now, she was finding herself wanting to hear the question so badly that she'd settle for a proposal in a clown suit with puppet props or something. Well, okay, maybe that would warrant a polite request for a third attempt. But, she'd say yes, at least. Again. And at least a puppet proposal would be G-rated enough to tell people about. One would hope.

She sighed. Not saying anything was going to be torture. Chinese water. With the little bamboo shoot things.

The sex proposal was actually starting to sound attractive. Nobody would care that Derek had proposed over sex. Right? Everyone already thought that was all she and Derek did. Why not propose over sex, too? It seemed logical.

At the very least, Alex wouldn't care.

Maybe she should just tell Alex…

Or someone.

Anyone.

She clenched her teeth.

"Probably not drugs then if she's responsive," Alex said, his face a mask, though the skin around his eyes pinched in a way that said he was just playing.

"Guys!" Meredith insisted. "I'm fine." Engaged. "It's not drugs." Just Derek. "I'm just happy." Euphoric, really.

Alex quirked an eyebrow as he folded his arms over his chest. "You."

"Yes!" Meredith said. I'm engaged!

Izzie frowned. "Right."

"My bet is still on sleep," George said.

Meredith rolled her eyes. "I'm exhausted and jetlagged." And engaged!

"And yet, strangely," Izzie said, "Still smiling."

"Is it so weird that I'm cracking a freaking grin?" Meredith asked. Because I'm engaged!

"Yes," said everyone at once.

Alex leaned back against the wall of lockers, crossed his arms over his chest, and held his chin in a ponderous gesture. "Wait. Wait, wait. I know what it is. You're a pod person."

Meredith blinked. "A pod what?"

Alex gave her a wink. "Take me to your leader," he said. "Do you do human testing? I bet those are some good surgeries."

"What?" Meredith said. "Are you all insane?"

"No," Alex assured her. "We're just debating if you are."

"Because I freaking smiled?" As a future married person?

George frowned. He glanced at Alex and Izzie, back and forth like a windshield wiper, and then he crossed his arms just like Alex in a sort of I'll-play-too gesture. "Who are you," he said. "And what have you done with our Meredith? Did Dr. Shepherd replace you with a robot? Did anyone see that episode of Buffy? The one with the Buffybot? I bet he made a Merebot for work so he can keep the real one for sex. It's probably been his nefarious plan from the beginning."

Sex. Yeah. See, they all thought all she did already with Derek was sex. Why not… He wouldn't mind if she blabbed. It was her own damned fault for the gag order anyway. Why don't you propose to me again in a manner befitting not-naked versions of ourselves, she'd said. Sort of said. Okay, so she'd paraphrased. But why? Why had she sort of said that? Damn it.

She was engaged. Naked engaged. But engaged!

Izzie grinned. "She totally went nuclear when you said that."

"Said what…" George asked. "Buffybot?"

"No," Izzie replied. "Dr. Shepherd. Ooh, see, she did it again. What the hell did he do to you on that vacation?"

Fell in love, had sex lots, and proposed. Meredith felt her lips slide back over teeth. She tried to stop. Really, she did. This was already ridiculous. A pod person? A robot? No. Engaged!

"I'm telling you," Cristina interjected. "They made her bake cookies."

Alex turned to George. "Dude, you watch Buffy?"

"Watched," George corrected. "It's not on anymore."

"You watched a show about a girl named Buffy?" Alex said.

"No," George said. "I watched a show about a hot blond chick who wears tight pleather and gets in fights."

Alex shrugged. "Okay. I'll give you that."

"Guys!" Meredith hissed, and all eyes turned back to her.

"I bet you had sex all week," Alex said, ignoring her outburst, jumping tracks back into the conversation. "I think the amnesia was a cover story and the family was actually a hotel room in Vegas or something."

"That's true," George said. "Do we have visual confirmation that Dr. Shepherd even has a family?"

"Nancypants," Cristina replied with a sigh.

"Oh," George said. "Right. What about scarring? Has anyone seen him?"

"They snuck in before we got home," Izzie replied, voice dipping low as she frowned with disappointment. "I kind of wanted to see McHair Interrupted, too."

"Wait," Alex said. "The amnesia messed up his hair? Nobody told me that. Dude, that's rough."

"Vegas," Meredith said flatly. The sex part wasn't far off, at least. She tried not to think about sex, because sex thoughts led back to proposal thoughts. Maybe he'd really just ask her over plain old dinner. The knee thing seemed to have dinner as a major clichéd component. Didn't it? Ring in an appetizer? Ring in a wine glass? Ring in a main course? Dinner was fine, though. As long as it was soon. Just having this defensive conversation was making her feel like her insides were bursting open. Giddy wasn't a drug. It was a state of pre-explosion.

Code black! Meredith is engaged!

"Oh, yeah," Izzie said as she looked Meredith up and down as though she were assessing some internal you-got-laid-didn't-you radar. "You probably got drunk and married and are secretly the new She-Shepherd. So, tell us, is Dr. Shepherd a good poker player? Or did you not make it out of the hotel room?"

Meredith swallowed, coughed, cleared her throat. "Married in Vegas," she managed weakly. So close to the truth, and yet… So freaking far. So… Far. Married. Me. Getting. Eventually. She gritted her teeth. How was she going to withstand this until Derek proposed?

Maybe he'd called in sick to plan. Faked her out or something. Oh, that was actually possible. Except, no. The exhaustion? That hadn't been faked. And he'd been… sluggish. In general. Snoozing in the cab on the way back to the hotel? Not faking. And then she felt ill for even thinking he might not be sick and was just trying to trick her. How selfish was that? God.

She was turning into a needy selfish… monster… person… lady. Who liked Muppet proposals more than being single. She was McFreakingInsane.

And engaged!

She took a deep breath, and then she took another.

"It's okay, Mere," Izzie said. "You can get an annulment if you act quickly."

Why would I want one?

And another deep breath, just for good measure.

"It's the sugar," Cristina said. "From the cookies she baked."

"You people are all freaking crazy," Meredith replied. And I'm engaged.

"Dr. Shepherd," Izzie said.

Meredith felt her face heat up with a blush as Izzie giggled at her. "See, she smiled again," Izzie said. "That's adorable."

"Guys!" Meredith snapped.

"Dr. Shhhhhnuffleupagus," George said, drawing out the first few syllables into one long, slurred, drawl. "Hah, got you!" 

"GUYS!" Meredith belted. "Derek is sick. Okay? He's sick. And I'm jetlagged, and tired, and grouchy—" And engaged.

Cristina snorted. "Except you're totally happy…"

"Grouchy," Meredith said, still not quite able to stop her lips from turning upward. "I'm grouchy." And engaged. "And I just want to start work again without a fanfare. Okay?"

They all stared at her for a long set of moments, and she prayed. Prayed silently that they wouldn't push her. Because she really did feel like she was going to burst. She wanted to tell somebody so badly. Somebody who wasn't going to blab it everywhere. Somebody who wouldn't prod for the details and force her to reveal the embarrassing naked parts. Someone who'd just say, "Congratulations!"

She wanted to hear it so, so bad. She'd been okay with it, okay with the waiting, back in New York, when it'd been just him and her, the both of them in a private, blissful island of secret-engagedness. But now everyone she knew, her family, everyone. All there. And she wanted somebody to hug her and say, "Yay!"

That was the normal thing, right?

"Right," Alex said.

Izzie nodded. "Sure."

"Fine," Cristina said with a shrug.

"Of course, Meredith," George said.

She found herself nodding with them, smiling, and it took her a moment to realize they were replying to the question she'd spoken out loud. Not the one she'd spoken in her head.

A familiar someone cleared her throat somewhere behind them. Meredith wheeled on her feet. "Hi, Dr. Bailey!" Meredith exclaimed. She resisted the urge to clamp her hand over her mouth. Oops. Bubbly. That had been a little too bubbly.

Dr. Bailey stood there in her light blue scrubs, her lab coat jutting out over her hips, clipboard in hand, pen stuck over her ear, as she glared back for a moment, looking for all the word like something… carnivorous. The scalpel monster or something. The moment with the glaring involved silence. Painful silence. Except that, for some reason, Meredith smiled. She couldn't turn it off. It wouldn't go away. The damned thing was superglued to her face. Dr. Bailey pulled the pen down from over her ear, only to use it as a percussive tension builder against her clipboard. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Everyone stood silently.

And Meredith. Couldn't. Stop. Smiling.

"Yang, Dr. Sloane. Stevens, Dr. Montgomery. O'Malley, clinic. Grey, Dr. Weller asked for you. Karev, you're with me today."

Everyone nodded. The smile finally broke from Meredith's face. Dr. Weller. Dr. Weller was the senior attending in the neurosurgery department just under Derek. He wasn't the jock Derek was about performing complicated surgeries like separating adult, conjoined twins. Yet. But he was up and coming, he was starting to get published a lot more often, and Derek had said more than once that he was probably one of the best neurosurgeons on the West Coast. Coming from Derek, that said a lot. Derek was going to see Dr. Weller on Tuesday for his follow-up appointment. That said even more. Meredith had worked with him a few times before. He was a nice man. Not conceited. And definitely missing the whole control-freaky god complex Derek had.

This would be weird, though. Dr. Weller was probably acting as department head in Derek's stead. And that was… weird. Derek. Sick. Tired. A brief pang hit her. She really hoped he was just taking the next few days to sleep or something.

He was probably sleeping.

"I'm leaving," she'd said that morning. "I won't be back until tomorrow. I'm on-call all night."

"'Kay," Derek had said, barely awake.

"Need anything?" Meredith had asked as she'd picked up all the crap he'd knocked off his nightstand.

"Sleep," he'd said thickly.

See? He'd even said it. Sleep.

As she'd tiptoed out the door, he'd surprised her. "Love you," he'd mumbled into his pillow. The words had been distorted and dipped in a firm coating of heavy, tugging sleep. But he'd said them. He'd never done that before. Not like that. Not so blatantly casual. Like something so rooted in truth that it simply was. The sky is blue. People breathe air. Derek loves Meredith.

They hadn't really been big on exchanging the I-love-yous before. Before the week of the accident, anyway. She'd been sort of afraid to say it again after the last time when everything had come crashing down. Then he'd nearly died, and it hadn't seemed so scary anymore. The more she said it, the more he said it. And now they said it all the time. It was nice. But the casual thing? That was new. And different. And… neat. She was a fact. She simply was. Derek's life involved her. Her life involved Derek. End of story. And that made her just… Zing.

She hopped on her feet. Just a little. She caught herself when Cristina looked at her like she had five heads and a tail. She settled back into a grin. She probably still looked manic, as Izzie had mentioned, but at least that wasn't as bad as hopping.

Dr. Bailey shook her head, her eyebrow raised. "Why are you so damn happy?" she finally asked.

"Happy?" Meredith said. Yep. Apparently still more than adequate in the manic department.

Dr. Bailey nodded. "Happy," she said. "Bouncing. You. Why? Are you on drugs?"

"Of course not. I'm—"

"How was your trip?" Dr. Bailey asked, cutting her off.

"Oh, it was—"

"Stop," Dr. Bailey said. "See, this is what I'm talking about. You think I care? This is not a bar. Do I look like Joe?"

"No," Meredith replied.

"Good answer. We're surgeons, Grey. We're here to do surgeries."

Meredith sighed, exasperated. "Then why did you ask?"

"A test," Dr. Bailey said. "To see how far off the deep end you've gone. And that, it seems, is pretty far. I hope you still have your head in the game, Grey. Your exam is in two weeks." Dr. Bailey paused to glare at everyone individually. "Did you hear that, people? In case you've lost your minds along with Grey, your exam is in two weeks. That's fourteen days. You all better be studying instead of gossiping in the closets if I catch you anywhere not in the vicinity of your assignments, because if you fail, that's a reflection of me. And, Grey, I better not hear a peep out of you about being behind. I'm beyond amazed the Chief even gave you time off, so don't come crying to me."

"I wouldn't," Meredith said.

Everyone stood looking at the floor. Meredith felt her face flushing with heat. She was still smiling, though. What the hell?

"What are you all standing around for?" Dr. Bailey said as she clapped her hands together, miraculously without losing her grip on her pen or the clipboard. The clap ended up more as a clomp, though. "Chop, chop!" Everyone started shuffling out in quick, marching succession. Meredith filed into line behind Alex, only to jar to a halt when Dr. Bailey added, "Not you, Grey."

Great. Was she in trouble already? She hadn't done anything yet except criminal smiling and one or two hops. The active kind involving feet. Not the kind that created alcohol. Dr. Bailey sat down on the bench. Meredith followed suit. They waited until everyone had shuffled out of the room, leaving them in silence.

Dr. Bailey looked at her seriously. Meredith braced herself, preparing for the worst. She was going to get yelled at for taking a week off. She'd sort of just skipped out. She hadn't spent much more than two minutes telling Dr. Bailey before she'd left that she would be accompanying Derek to Connecticut, and Dr. Bailey had not looked all that happy at the time. The Chief had okayed it, though, and there hadn't been much Dr. Bailey could say against that except that she was making a mistake, taking time off so close to her exam. Meredith had shrugged it off.

She knew she knew her stuff. Surgery? That was one of the few things she was openly willing to admit she kicked ass at. The bone harvest she'd done with Mark? She doubted more than five interns in the program could have done that successfully without Mark having to butt in for the rescue. Plus, she figured Derek would help her study as sort of repayment for going on their little trip, anyway. Derek would probably help her study for no reason other than to help her study. Seeing as how the sky was blue, people breathed air, and he loved her. Even if this had happened before the whole concussion from hell thing, he probably would have helped. She had her own personal attending surgeon to help her study. And she freaking knew her stuff, anyway. Why not take time off? No. Dr. Bailey wouldn't convince her she'd done something wrong. Meredith wouldn't let Dr. Bailey make her feel bad for—

"How's Dr. Shepherd?" Dr. Bailey asked, her tone dropping out of her nasty Nazi voice into something… Friendly.

"Do you really care, or is this another test?" Meredith found herself snapping, but then she stopped and really looked. Dr. Bailey… Concerned. She had that concerned look she always wore when she was dealing with a patient who was particularly close to her. "Sorry. I… Well. He's still not feeling all that great," Meredith said. "He gets tired and anxious really easily. And he still has headaches and light sensitivity. He's got an appointment on Tuesday with Dr. Weller just to make sure everything is still healing right."

"I'm sure he's fine, Grey," Dr. Bailey said. "Tucker had headaches for weeks afterward, but they went away overnight about a month after I took him home."

"Your husband had PCS?"

"No," Dr. Bailey replied, narrowing her eyes in an affronted 'Duh' expression before continuing, "He had a craniotomy."

"Right. Right. Sorry."

Dr. Bailey placed a warm hand on Meredith's shoulder and squeezed. "How are you doing?"

"I'm…" Engaged. "Fine."

"Really."

"Well, no. I'm…" Engaged. Meredith felt the smile that had disappeared spread back onto her features like honey on bread. Warmth gurgled through her body, through her veins, like the spread of a good alcohol buzz. Engaged. "Perfect."

Dr. Bailey shook her head. "Your boyfriend is sick, your test is in two weeks, you're weeks behind… That must have been some vacation."

"It was," Meredith said.

"Was it worth getting behind by another week?" Dr. Bailey asked.

Another week. As in, in addition to the time off for dying, being exploded, and having her appendix removed. Meredith sighed. She really didn't feel behind. Not one bit. And worrying about that stupid exam after all the crap that had just happened the week before? She finally felt like she had her life in order for once. It was nice. It was beyond nice. She had Derek. She had Derek forever. For real. The rest? The rest would work itself out.

"Yeah," Meredith said. "It was."

"All right then," Dr. Bailey said. "Tie him down if you have to."

Meredith coughed. "Excuse me?"

"Dr. Shepherd. To rest. Tucker didn't get much sleep because of the baby. It made things take longer to heal up than they should have. Dr. Shepherd strikes me as one of those people who would be a bad patient. So, tie him down."

Meredith resisted the urge to laugh at Dr. Bailey's serious expression. Derek tied up. That was… Yeah. Imagery stuck. Good and stuck. And she doubted he would heal much, tied like that... She wondered when he was going to get around to tying her up. He'd seemed pretty eager about that. Derek. Sex. Tied. Sex. Sex. Engaged. She was a circular thinker today. All roads led to engagement.

She cleared her throat. Stop it. She had to stop it. She wouldn't make it through the day if she kept behaving like a manic freak. Giddy could only take her so far before she ended up in the psychiatric ward for testing.

She forced herself to focus on Dr. Bailey. Dr. Bailey and her look of concerned… concern. And the fact that Dr. Bailey was being nice. Uncharacteristically nice. Well, Dr. Bailey was usually nice, contrary to popular hospital opinion. Just not normally so… Nicey nice.

"You miss Derek," Meredith said.

"I do not."

"You do, too!"

Dr. Bailey stared at her, eyebrow quirked. "I believe you should be doing rounds with Dr. Weller, Grey."

"Okay, Dr. Bailey," she replied, smiling, not pressing the issue further.

When she left, she tore around the corner and managed to find herself in the midst of the surgical wing before she stopped and thumped back against the wall by the steps. The breath knocked in her chest. The OR board stared back at her. It was full, but the text blurred. She couldn't focus. She couldn't focus at all. She heaved one sigh, two sighs, three. Happy. Bouncy. Elated. She was. How was she going to make it through this? She wanted to scream! Hell, maybe she should get on the hospital PA system and say it. Just say it. Get it out there. Derek and I are naked engaged! Clothed engagement is pending! So, then people would know why she was acting like an insane, sugar-highed freak, and, maybe, just maybe, people would stop asking her about it. The smile. The smile from hell that would not go away.

Because she was freaking happy.

Nobody sane was this happy.

"So, are you going to tell me what happened?" Cristina said, interrupting Meredith's kaleidoscope of thoughts. Meredith blinked out of her brain spiral and found Cristina leaning against the wall next to her, arms over her chest, staring at the OR board, but not really looking at it. Cristina blew a slow breath over a jutting lower lip as she leaned her head back and copied Meredith's I'm-trying-not-to-burst posture straight down to the subtle clenching of her fingers against her elbows and the almost crossing but not quite of her ankles. Nurses and orderlies scurried past left and right. Residents. Surgeons. People. Everywhere. Nobody looked at them. They were just two surgical interns. Standing in the bustle. Not doing their jobs.

"Aren't you supposed to be with Dr. Sloane?" Meredith said.

"Says Dr. Weller's brand new beck and call girl?"

"Touché."

"So, what happened?"

Meredith turned to Cristina and sighed. I'm engaged. I'm getting married on some yet-to-be-determined date. And I'm freaking happy for once in my freaking life because the man I love loves me. Freaking. Loves me. Except she couldn't bring herself to say it. Not when Cristina looked so…

So miserable.

"Why on Earth does everyone assume something happened?" Meredith said, and then the babble started. "I went on a vacation. I met Derek's family. I saw the Big Apple, which, really? Is not much like an apple or a fruit of any kind, by the way. There was a car accident, Derek momentarily forgot my existence, and Nancy treated me like an adulterous whore for a few days, but it's fixed, we're good, it's all fine. I'm fine. Derek is fine, well, mostly fine. Okay, Derek is sick. But he's sick in a fine way. Okay? That's it."

Cristina rolled her eyes and shifted into a lean, one shoulder jammed against the wall, the other pointing out toward the hallway. The crossed arms stayed crossed, the ankles stayed almost crossed. But it was closer. More intimate. She leaned in, her eyes darting left and right. They had relative privacy. There were no easy places to hide nearby, and if they kept their voices low, who would hear them in the whirl of back-and-forth activity? Cristina said, her voice low and whispery and fast, "Meredith, you hung up on me after I told you about the Chief thing, and now you're so happy you're acting like you're on drugs. I'm thinking there's just the slightest disconnect."

"Oh, that," Meredith said. "And two smiles does not equate to being high."

"Yes, that," Cristina replied. "And, with you, I beg to differ. Lately, anyway. Plus? More like fifty smiles. And a hop. You hopped, Meredith. You don't hop."

"Fine," Meredith said, rolling her eyes. "Fine, I guess I've been a little mopey lately."

"A little."

"Okay, a lot. But I'm fine, now. Really fine. More than fine. And I talked to Derek about the Chief thing. He's definitely getting shut out because he's with me."

"Why isn't Burke getting shafted because of me then?"

"Because you're not the Chief's adulterous fake-child."

"I don't get it."

"Chief is apparently playing fake-daddy and forcing Derek be a good fi—boyfriend."

Meredith made herself breathe. That had been close. She was doing Derek's thing. Derek was the one who couldn't say the word girlfriend anymore without stumbling first. Damn it.

Forget the week being torture. This day was torture.

Torture.

"He's shutting down Chief because he wants McDreamy to be McDreamier?" Cristina said. She snorted and shook her head. "That's ridiculous."

"That's essentially what I said."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

"You should file a complaint," Cristina said.

"That's what I told Derek."

"Well, is he going to file a complaint?"

"No," Meredith replied "He said it didn't matter anyway."

"Oh, Meredith," Cristina said, her tone dropping into something woeful.

"What?"

Cristina caught her eyes in an apologetic stare. "McDreamy's so McWhipped for you."

"Well," Meredith said, inhaling. "Yeah."

And then that blasted smile came back, and she was stuck doing laps around her mind's eye picture of her ring. Engaged. Her. Derek. Hers. Always. And why would something like that make Cristina seem apologetic?

"Yeah?" Cristina said, her eyes widening as she practically choked on her tongue in an uncharacteristic bout of flailing… expressions. "You're agreeing with me?"

"Yes."

"As in, you're definitively positive he loves you?"

"Yes."

Cristina shook her head. "This is beyond bizarre."

"What is?"

"You're really not kidding, are you?"

"About what?" Meredith asked.

"There's something…" Cristina began, her voice trailing away. Her eyes ticked back and forth as she searched Meredith's face for… Her gaze narrowed, and her tone dropped into something suspicious as she continued, "Something happened."

"Why does everyone think something happened!" Meredith said. She blew out a frustrated puff of air that sent some of her loose bangs flying. Everyone thought something had happened because she was telegraphing the fact that she was happy beyond words. Fine was the understatement of the year. The century.

Engaged. I am. Engaged. She couldn't hold it in. She just had to tell… Somebody. She sucked in a breath. Her person. Cristina. It seemed dangerous to tell her. Dangerous because… Cristina was already engaged. And Cristina wasn't happy at all about it. And… would Cristina really do the whole "Yay!" thing that Meredith found herself coveting? Especially when it was Derek who'd done the proposing. Cristina had never really… gotten onboard with the whole Meredith and Derek 2.0 revival. Derek was tolerated for Meredith's sake. That was the impression Meredith had always gotten since… Since Addison had come traipsing out of the woodwork in her high heels and ridiculously expensive skirts. Cristina would definitely figure out the sex part, too. She was the kind of person who would press for the details until they came out into the open in all their naked glory.

It seemed wrong not to tell Cristina. And, yet, it seemed wrong to tell Cristina. But…

She inhaled, almost ready to give in. The syllables gathered in her chest, ready to pop out of her if she'd just give them the slightest push. Engaged. I am. Engaged. Cristina. Her person--

"So, Burke and I are thinking about the day after the intern exams," Cristina said, abruptly jumping subjects, and Meredith felt herself deflating.

"For your wedding?" Meredith asked, the words hitchhiking out of her mouth on the last remnants of the sigh that would have said, Engaged! Me!

"Yeah."

Meredith narrowed her eyes. "Is this Burke's idea or yours?"

"Burke's…"

"Cristina," Meredith began hesitantly. "Are you… Are you sure? He's… He's sort of forcing you into a lot. And that's… Cristina, it's not supposed to be like that."

"We're fine," Cristina snapped.

"Right."

"It's fine, Meredith."

"Okay," Meredith said. She didn't want to fight about this. She didn't. It's just… Everything she felt. Everything she felt seemed right. And now? Now, everything Cristina seemed to be feeling seemed wrong. And that just… Something was wrong. And Cristina just…

Would Cristina even know? Would she even know things were wrong?

Or maybe they weren't wrong. Just different.

But…

"Meredith?" Cristina said, her voice low and hesitant.

"Yeah?"

Meredith turned in time to see Cristina shuffle forward on her feet, shuffle and twitch, her hands inching away from her torso, almost like… Like she was moving in for a hug. But then Cristina halted, went still, and decided instead to say, "I'm glad you're fine," as she settled back against the wall like nothing had happened. Like she hadn't spent the last few seconds debating about initiating a gesture that Cristina Yang… Just. Didn't. Do.

"Me, too," Meredith said with a smile. "What cake did you pick?"

"Red velvet."

Meredith nodded. "Good flavor."

"Yeah," Cristina said. "Well, I'd better…"

Cristina shifted on her feet for a second, as if she were debating saying hell with it and staying to shoot the breeze, like she needed to… Needed to stay. Needed it. It was so… Odd. Meredith nodded, and then Cristina disappeared down the hall in a rush of moving limbs, almost like she was fleeing, leaving Meredith alone in the hallway again. And that was… Odd. Odd as well.

Why did everything seem so damned strange after just one week?

She sighed.

So. Dr. Weller. He would be… Where would he be? Probably… Hmmm. She didn't even have a clue where to start. She didn't know Dr. Weller all that well. She turned to head toward the gallery and check it since it was the closest major traffic area for surgeons that she could think of, only to practically smack her nose into Mark's chest.

"Dr. Grey," he said as he reached out to steady her. He snatched his hands back in an almost flinching gesture when she brushed him away. That was weird… She shook her head. Was there no one on the staff who wouldn't bump into her before the day was out? This was like the twelve labors of Hercules or something. Which person would she blab to? Which person would she not be able to withstand telling in the ultimate battle of happy naked engagement versus sanity?

"Dr. Sloane," Meredith said. Abrupt. That had been too abrupt. She'd overcompensated. "Cristina, er, Dr. Yang looked like she was headed for your office if you're looking for her."

Mark closed his eyes and took a breath, shaking his head minutely. "Is Derek in today?" he asked without precursor. "I haven't seen him around, and he's not answering pages."

Meredith frowned. "No," she said. Okay, not telling Mark? Not telling Mark was proving to be really easy. She had no desire to go there. None.

"Oh," Mark said, his eyes widening in surprise, almost a sort of relief. As if he had suspected that Derek had just been actively avoiding him. "Okay," he added in a thick, weighted tone. He sighed and turned. "My office, you said?"

"Dr. Sloane, are you all right?" she found herself asking. Wait. Stop. Why ask that?

Damn it.

He sighed again and turned back. There was an uncharacteristic… Heaviness to his features. His shoulders slumped, which looked odd against his tall, muscular frame. People like Mark weren't supposed to slouch like that. "How was the reunion?" he said, his voice calm and flat, but she didn't miss the bitterness creeping there against the lower registers.

_Well, you said Mark was practically family. Why isn't he here?  
_

_Mom didn't invite him this year._

_Because of Derek? _

_Mom didn't think he'd come if he thought Mark would be here._

She swallowed thickly. Oh. Oh. That was… Not good. She hadn't thought about… A lump formed in the back of her throat.

Derek hated Mark. Well, Derek was twisted up inside about Mark. He loved Mark. He missed Mark. But… Mark and Addison… He loved Mark, missed Mark, but the whole stabbing betrayal thing was a bit too loud for anything else to punch through the internal tangle and still make sense. She wouldn't necessarily call the result hate, though that was the closest word she could come up with. Derek hated Mark, and his family, coincidentally Mark's family, if what Sarah had said, if what Derek had indicated, were even remotely true… His family had had to choose.

And Mark was the… Not chosen. Whatever.

"It was…" she managed as a sinking feeling started pulling her under. "Different."

Mark nodded. "Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"The first time you have a family after having no one, it can be a bit of a shock," he said stiffly. Meredith blinked. How did he…

_I just saw my father for the first time in twenty years._

_How'd that go?_

_Could have gone better._

"I—" she stuttered. She couldn't have this conversation. Not with Mark. Derek needed to have this conversation with Mark. Not her.

Mark grunted. "Will Derek be in later, or?"

Meredith frowned when she realized Mark didn't seem to know. "Derek's out sick, Mark. We were in a car accident."

Mark turned to her, his eyes widened, his breath caught, and he managed a hoarse, "What?" He raised his hands and swept his fingers down his cheeks to the tip of his chin in an agitated, flicking gesture that scraped hollowly against his beard. The skin around his eyes twitched.

"He's fine," Meredith assured him, trying to ignore the worry as it slathered across Mark's face like an oil slick of badness. It was hard. It was very hard, suddenly. To keep herself out of this. To keep herself Mark-neutral. She'd managed neutral before. Not hate. He was too much… Like her. For her to hate him. Self-destructive. Liked to fix things with sex, even when it was the worst thing possible to try and fix things with.

She couldn't do the hate thing. Not even for Derek. She wasn't that person. She didn't toss that sort of dislike around lightly. And Mark had never done anything to her. Not really. Except, well, except be an arrogant letch. But that was… That fell into the liked to fix things with sex, even when it was the worst thing possible to try and fix things with category. And, besides, that hadn't gone anywhere.

She tried to ignore the worry on his face. She did. She tried to be neutral. She tried to be good at the supportive fiancé thing right then, even though Derek wasn't around to watch her or know about it. But the look on Mark's face? Freaking hard to ignore.

And, oddly, the whole mess with Mark felt like her business now. She'd gone with Derek to Connecticut, she'd watched him fall apart all over again over Mark, she'd watched him in New York as he'd… lived through all the good and bad Mark stuff that'd already happened. Again. She'd sat with his family while they'd openly admitted shoving Mark out on his figurative ass if only to get Derek to come home.

"He got a bad concussion," she added finally when the worry continued to sit on Mark's face like an obnoxious restaurant patron, wouldn't go away, and refused to be ignored. "And he's still a little sick from it."

"Oh," Mark said. "But he's okay?"

"Yes, Mark," she said. "He's fine."

"How is…" Mark paused to swallow. His eyes watered. Extra liquid swirled in a shiny film over his eyes, but, as far as expressions went, he really didn't have one. Mask. Masking Mark. "Everyone else?"

"Everyone else?"

"The Shepherd clan. Did Stewart finally get his capture the flag win this year?"

"Oh," Meredith said. "Yeah. Blue kicked ass." She caught herself before she babbled about being a jail guard. Mark didn't need to hear about that part. Mark probably wouldn't want to. Awkward. Awkward. Awkward.

She was the new quarterback, talking to the new benchwarmer.

And that was… Weird.

"Good. That's…" Mark paused to clear his throat. "That's good. Will you tell Derek I want to talk with him when he gets the chance?"

"Sure."

"Thanks," he said. "He needs to stop cracking his head on things. The last time was bad enough."

"The motorcycle thing?" Meredith found herself asking.

"Yeah," Mark replied. A strange, uncomfortable look crossed his face. "He actually told you about that? He doesn't… He doesn't talk about that."

"Yeah. It was this whole thing. With medical histories."

"Right," Mark said, as if what she'd said make perfect sense. Which, really, it totally didn't. "Well, talk to you later, Dr. Grey."

"Later, Dr. Sloane," she said.

She didn't realize she was shaking until he'd left. Actually shaking. What the hell? What the hell was wrong with her? Well, at least she wasn't smiling her freaking face off anymore. She stood there and forced herself to breathe. That was… That had been…

Bad.

Really.

"Meredith."

She froze. Okay. Day? Plummeting. Plummeting fast.

"Chief," she said flatly.

Chief Webber stood in front of her, dressed in leftover surgical gear. His surgical mask hung loosely by the lower neck ties down against his chest. He looked… pleased.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice low and rich and… kind. Like he hadn't just ruined Derek's career for her. Like he cared. "Better?"

"Fine," she snapped, unable to suppress a glare. Definitely not hard to skip the whole engagement blabbing there…

"Ready for your exam?" he said.

"I hope so. Look, I have rounds," she said, resisting the urge to snap and growl. She hated Chief Webber right then. She hated him. The hate she'd refused for Mark? She had it in spades right that moment. But she wasn't going to bring the Chief thing up. She wasn't. Not then. Not in front of the whole hospital. Derek didn't need his dirty laundry strung up for everyone to see. Derek. Derek wouldn't want that. She wasn't even entirely sure Derek wanted Chief at all anymore. And so she held her tongue. Barely.

"Of course," he said. "Susan is fine, by the way," he said as she turned, intent on leaving him in the dust, getting away from him, moving to somewhere where she could snarl for a moment unhindered by propriety.

She halted mid-step and wheeled back around to face him. "What?"

"Susan. We just corrected a complication from her endoscopic gastroplication. She's fine, now."

"She had surgery?"

"Yes. Well, the first one was yesterday."

"Susan Grey had surgery?" Meredith asked. Her eyes darted to the OR board. The OR board that she hadn't read before. Couldn't read before when she'd looked at it. There, still listed in OR 6. Susan Grey. Listed surgeon, Richard Webber. She swallowed. How had she missed that?

Susan Grey had had a surgical complication, and Meredith Grey hadn't even known she'd had surgery to have a complication about. And that… That…

She felt like her stomach was dropping into her shoes. Susan had been having surgery yesterday while Meredith had been having happily oblivious plane sex. Susan had been having surgery that…

Meredith glanced at the board, checked the corrective procedure.

Having surgery that had almost killed her.

"Yes, Meredith. I'm sorry. I thought you knew. Wasn't that why you were waiting out here?"

"No, I didn't know," she snapped, and then she found herself running, well, more like darting, walking fast, whatever. Politeness be damned. Dr. Weller. She had to find Dr. Weller. To do stuff. Stuff that didn't involve telling everyone about Derek's naked proposal, that didn't involve everyone thinking she was high, that didn't involve awkward talks with Mark, that didn't involve Chief Webber trying to be her freaking father when he wasn't, that didn't involve her fake mother having endoscopic gastroplication that had failed dismally.

She looked everywhere. She tried Dr. Weller's office. She tried all the operating rooms, well, except number six. She checked the nurses' station. It was all a blur, but she was determined. Determined to do stuff. She practically ran laps around the hospital. Looking for him. If it were Derek, she would have found him by then. Derek was everywhere, all the time. But Dr. Weller? Not Derek.

She sighed, frustrated, when she realized she was walking through one of the post op recovery areas. She was… Susan. She blinked. Susan lay swathed in blankets as a nurse checked her over.

"Susan," Meredith said as her feet walked her over to Susan's bed while her brain seized up and froze.

Susan was awake. Pale. Disheveled. But awake. A monitor ticked off her slow heartbeats for anyone who bothered to look. Meredith looked. Meredith looked again.

"Meredith. I thought you were on vacation," Susan said. Her voice was quiet and tired and a little groggy. But she was awake. Awake and… Fine. "Who would have thought hiccups could get so complicated?" The brief beginnings of a chuckle fell from Susan's lips, only to curtail into silence when she winced and apparently decided better of it.

"I'm," Meredith said, but the word broke somewhere in her throat, and all she got was a cracking sound. She pulled up a little wheeled stool next to the bed and sank down onto it. The foamy top squeaked as it surrendered to her slight weight. "I'm back. I went to Connecticut with Derek."

"Really? I have some family in Connecticut. What part?"

"Sharon."

"My sister lives in Hartford," Susan replied. Her eyes dipped shut for a moment, and she sighed.

Meredith stared down at the bed. Susan looked really… Tired. Pale. She was fine. Heart monitor said fine. Just fine. Meredith snaked her arms over the railing, picked up Susan's nearest hand, and squeezed it.

"I'm all right, Meredith," Susan said as if she'd peered into Meredith's mind and just… known. Known what the worry was about. "So, tell me about this vacation? Distract me from the nausea."

"You're nauseated?" Meredith said. She bit her lip. "We can give you something for that, you know. It's a common side effect of anesthesia."

But Susan just shook her head and waved the hand Meredith wasn't holding at her. "I'll be fine in a minute. I just need to… To wake up. So. Connecticut?"

Meredith sighed, staring at Susan, just staring. She'd had surgery, and Meredith hadn't even known? Hadn't even been told? Two weeks ago… She probably wouldn't have cared. And now? Now… She cared. She did. Really. She wondered if Thatcher was in the waiting room, waiting for news. Dr. Webber would tell him Susan was fine.

Susan. Fine.

She swallowed, and suddenly, it was all coming out in a tumble. "Connecticut. I. We. Well. New York. And capture the flag. Derek…" she said, the words twisting as her thoughts ran away with her. "I stirred cookie batter."

Susan looked at her, her lips curling in confused amusement. "I hope you sampled some," she said, latching onto the only coherent thing that had jumped out of Meredith's mouth. "Cookie baking is only as good as however many spoonfuls you steal."

Meredith laughed. Susan chuckled breathily. "I'm sorry," Meredith said. "You could have called me about…"

Susan shook her head. "It was sort of a last minute thing. And you were on vacation."

"Call me next time," Meredith said.

Susan regarded her quietly for a minute. "All right," she said.

They sat in peaceful silence as the floor nurse came to check Susan's vitals. "Looking great, Mrs. Grey," the nurse said cheerfully as she bounced from monitor to monitor, making sure everything was fine. Fine. Fine. All fine. But a complication? That indicated it nearly hadn't been. "We should be able to move you down to your room soon."

The nurse left. The silence that followed built. Built and built and built. Susan rested with her eyes shut, a small grin pursing her lips, enough to show that she was awake. Just… Relaxing. Which was good. She needed to rest. She'd be groggy for a while. And she probably just wanted to sleep right then, but… But…

"Derek and I are engaged," Meredith blurted.

Susan's eyes creaked open. She stared at Meredith for a moment, but slowly, as the seconds traipsed past, a wide, gorgeous smile spread across her pale features. Her fingers squeezed around Meredith's, warm and firm and solid. Fine. "Congratulations!" she exclaimed, still a little hoarse, but…

The smile from before, the smile that'd slowly dissipated as the morning had progressed, came back sort of like a truck running into a wall at full-bore. Slam! The truck crunched into a flat pile of squealing, screaming metal. Bricks collapsed in a dusty pile as they plinked down onto the pavement. Bits and pieces of broken things fluttered everywhere. Her cheeks started to ache as they gripped her lips and held them back from her teeth, refusing to let go. It felt.

So, so good.

"Don't tell anyone," Meredith said, breathless as her heart started to throb. "Okay? It's not… Official yet. I'm sorry. You're healing. But I just had to… I had to tell someone, and I…"

A fuzzy warmth spread through her body as Susan squeezed her hand again, silencing her. It wasn't the hug she'd wanted, but…

No, it was better.

The nurse returned. "Mrs. Grey? It's time to move you back to your room now."

"Okay," Susan said. "Come visit me later, Meredith?"

Meredith smiled. "Sure."

She watched as the nurse pushed Susan's bed away, leaving Meredith alone in the post op area. Relatively. Give or take a few nurses and an orderly passing through. She rocked onto her feet. The stool squeaked and wandered away from the backs of her knees across the floor in response. She stood there, almost swaying, almost… Drunk.

"Dr. Grey?" a deep, baritone voice said. She turned to see a tall, brown-haired man with angular features approaching her. He was thin. Neither muscular nor toned, just thin. In his mid to late thirties. He was handsome, but not… Not a knockout or anything.

"Dr. Weller," Meredith said breathlessly. "I'm so sorry. I've been looking for you everywhere."

He smiled. "Not a problem," he said. No, he definitely didn't have the arrogant surgeon vibe common to so many of them. "I was down in the cafeteria trying to get some decent coffee. I'll be doing a VNS implantation later today if you'd like to join me. Dr. Shepherd mentioned you were particularly interested in neurosurgery."

Her mouth fell open. "Um. Yes. Yes, definitely," she said. "You picked me because I'd be interested?" And he was giving her the opportunity to say no thanks? What? That… That was just weird. Attendings picked interns to do the scut work and maybe learn something. They didn't pick interns because they might be interested…

Dr. Weller shrugged. "An interested intern is always a more helpful one," he said. "I'd appreciate it if you would do the prep work. Room 243. Mr. Brent Dixon."

"Sure," Meredith replied. "Thank you, Dr. Weller."

Dr. Weller winked, departed, and then she was alone again.

She smiled. Fake-mommy was fine. She was fine. Meredith was doing a VNS implantation. That was pretty cool. She was engaged. That was even cooler. And… The screaming voice that had begged her to tell someone all morning about said engagement had finally shut the hell up.

Engaged. Her! The excitement stayed happily in her head, tumbling, bouncing... But not on the tip of her tongue, waiting for a weak moment to bounce off her taste buds like a diver off a diving board. She licked her lips. Smiling. Smiling. Smiling.

But that was okay. Smiling was okay.

Maybe this day wouldn't be so torturous after all.


	34. Chapter 32

**Author's Notes: Thanks for the comments everyone! I hope the relative 'quietness' is because everyone has been having lots of fun on vacation, and not because this story is starting to disappoint. I still have a bit of a jog left to go on this journey, and I do hope you'll stick it out with me :) I have a few things planned yet! Comments and constructive suggestions are cherished and loved!  
**

* * *

His keys were missing.

Derek stood in the foyer of Meredith's house, dressed in a sharp black suit and a red tie, ready, waiting for Meredith to come down the steps. He could hear her thumping around upstairs, cursing, hissing as she battled with things like lipstick and hairspray. He'd told her she didn't need to do that… But she'd insisted.

"Derek, if I'm going to put on a freakin' dress, I might as well give you the whole Meredith-Barbie package," she'd said.

She was a little grouchy. A little. Not that he blamed her at all. Thirty-six hour shifts tended to do that. She'd arrived home mid afternoon, looking like she was ready to collapse. And she had. Collapsed. Right next to him on the couch.

He'd been lounging in his pajamas, flipping through every channel imaginable, being greeted by one ridiculous talk-show host after another in a veritable assault of mind-numbing, daytime word vomit. Cheaters. Sex addicts. Drug addicts. Hookers. Necrophiliacs. Junk hoarders. Ebay addicts. Sometimes all together on the same show, manufactured into a giant, ridiculous twist of conflict. My narcoleptic wife cheats on me with a packrat Ebay overlord! Why does she cheat? Well, she's a prostitute, so, it's sort of in the job description. Boooooo. He'd sworn there was a cue card that got flashed every two minutes saying, "Fight!" to the participants. Frankly, the whole lot of it was…

Disgusting.

He'd tried reading. He was more of a reading person than a television person, but… He'd found it was difficult to keep his brain on the words. He'd read a paragraph, and his mind would wander off into space and forget everything. He'd picked up one of Meredith's trashy romance novels, what she liked to call…bubblegum for the mind. He'd always laughed at her penchant for that stuff, but, really, the mere thought of trying to digest something like Dickens or Hemingway or any of his countless medical journals … The mere thought of trying to read those things had already started the dull background whine of a threatening headache. So, bubblegum for the mind, it had been.

He'd wandered to Meredith's shelf, chuckling almost evilly as he'd pulled one of her newer favorites entitled Fantasy Lover off the shelf. Probably about some scantily clothed, muscular hero named Ivan or Vlad or something else prosaic but appropriately foreign-sounding. Two chapters. He'd made it two chapters before he'd flat out given up, two chapters that he'd been trying so hard to read that he hadn't even thought about laughing or making fun of it. He just hadn't been able to follow the flow of words, and the space behind his eyes had been throbbing like his veins were trying to push something through them the size of a ping pong ball by the time he'd set the worn paperback down on the coffee table.

He'd had the same problem on the plane, but he'd been hoping... He'd been hoping that the concentration troubles had been a byproduct of the fact that he'd felt like… Like he was going to die. Again. It was becoming a familiar feeling. That deep pit of panic that left his chest sucking down heartbeats like a black hole, that left his insides twisting and made everything around him seem large and terrifying and worrisome.

Meredith had sunk down onto the cushions next to him and wrapped her arms around him as he'd hit the channel button. Flip, flip, flip. Nothing. Nothing but crap that had reminded him his own life would fit center stage if he were enough of an attention-whore and enough of a jackass to ever want to broadcast it. It had left his tongue curling against the back of his mouth, left his stomach churning just thinking about it. How could people ever get off on… That? He'd just wanted it all to go… Away.

He really wasn't much of a television person.

"Somehow," Meredith had whispered into his ear as she'd leaned into him and kissed him, "I hadn't pictured you as a Jerry Springer person." She'd been joking, but her tone had been crushed flat in a sort of bone-deep weariness that had warped her syllables into something… neutral. Something… tired.

"I'm not," he'd replied gruffly. "But I'm done with sleeping for a while, and I can't…" Read. "How was your shift?"

They'd chatted briefly as she'd leaned against him, quiet, breathing, resting. She'd tiredly mentioned doing the VNS implantation with Dr. Weller, but beneath the exhaustion in her tone, he'd felt the excitement zinging there, almost like vibrations on a tripwire. He'd felt the excitement, and he'd found himself bitter. Bitter. Because if he couldn't read a paperback written for the consumption of a person with a fourth grade reading level, he very much doubted he would be able to use a knife in conjunction with a human brain. At least, not without killing the owner of said brain. And then he'd felt mad at himself for feeling bitter. He should be happy for Meredith. Happy that she'd learned something and had had fun…

She'd yawned, yawned again. He'd rubbed her back, and as he'd sat there darkly mulling over the fact that he'd discovered his brain was even more scrambled than he'd thought, the words had popped out of his mouth. "Why don't you get some sleep? Maybe we can go out to dinner later," he'd said.

Because, suddenly? He'd needed to do something. Something that he could actually still do. Romancing Meredith? He could do that. That was instinct. That was… Easy. Romancing Meredith? Easy. Romancing the love of his life…

He could do that.

She'd lit up like a little Roman candle and insisted on, instead of getting the actual amount of sleep she'd needed, taking a small nap. He'd tried to back out of it. Dinner. He had. She'd yawned again, and he'd felt guilty for suggesting it. She'd looked exhausted, and he hadn't wanted to drag her away from sleep she'd needed just to make himself feel better, but she'd gotten all cute and bossy.

"You said dinner," she'd snapped. "You can't say dinner and then get all un-dinnery. Take me to dinner, Derek."

"Okay," he'd replied, unable to stop the grin that had swept over him like a wave. She was hard to resist when she growled. Really, she was hard to resist anytime, anywhere, anyhow.

And so, now… Dinner. She was finally gift wrapped in that little black dress that had remained elusively tucked away in her suitcase in Manhattan and in Sharon. Finally in it.

Except his fucking keys were missing. And the fact that he couldn't even begin to recall where he'd placed them? Ruining everything. He glanced around. They weren't anywhere near the door. Where the hell would he have put them?

He made a prowling circuit around the living room, trying to slow his breaths into something resembling calm. Nothing. He never misplaced his keys. He didn't really misplace anything. He knew where stuff was. He knew. He was an organized person.

He wandered to the coat closet and began jamming his fingers into accessible pockets, one after the other after the other. His coats, even ones he couldn't recall wearing within the last month. Meredith's coats, though, why his keys would have ended up in one of Meredith's pockets… Well, she did borrow his keys, sometimes. But... He found nothing except old ticket stubs, a few nickels and pennies, fibrous remnants of long-forgotten receipts, and a smattering of other odds and ends. As he yanked his fingers away from the fuzzy depths of Meredith's favorite white toggle coat, he clenched his teeth and shook the crumbs and other bits away.

Where? His muscles bunched up uncomfortably, and he tried to force himself to relax. To… loosen up the sudden locks gripping his joints. He knew it was the silliest thing in the world to get upset about. He did. Missing keys. Minor. Silly.

He slammed his hand onto the molding around the door and clenched his fingers around it until the corners bit into his skin. Okay. He'd… He'd had his keys when they'd come home from the airport. He'd opened the door for Meredith. And he couldn't have done that if he hadn't had his keys. He tried to focus on that moment, focus, tried to remember the keys in his hands, tried to remember the sharp metal, jabbing into his palms… Nothing but a vague, watery blur of half-noticed details replied to his mental stirring.

Meredith, smiling, her hair spilling over her shoulders in a loose waterfall that looked… Like something he wanted to run his fingers through. Meredith. Meredith walking over the threshold, wrestling with her unstable bag. It'd toppled. Twice. But the door. Opening the door? The storm door had shut behind her, clapping her in the ass as she'd bent over to pick up her suitcase again. He'd reached to try and catch it. The door. Not her suitcase. He remembered. Reaching… But he'd missed. She'd shot up and grinned, growling, "Hey, you did that on purpose!" And they'd… argued lightly. About… something. Keys. Where? Not there. Nowhere. Just… fuzz. The moment… Missing.

He wandered into the kitchen, trying to calm the huffing breaths that tore through his chest like a slow burning fire, but... Izzie sat at the table, lording over a small cup of yogurt barely larger than a shot glass. She licked at the spoon as if it were the most delectable food that she'd ever consumed. "Mmm," she purred as she flipped to the next page in her magazine. She looked up at him as he entered the room and stared. She'd been staring at him whenever he'd been in the room since she'd gotten home, and he had no idea why.

"What?" he snapped. He reached up and clawed his fingers through his hair, agitated. That just made her stare harder, and he felt heat flushing across his skin. She was making him feel like some sort of… specimen.

"I think it's cute. Your ha--," she started, but her voice hitched into silence, as if she suddenly thought better of mentioning… Whatever it was. "Are you looking for something?"

"My keys," he admitted.

She cleaned the tip of her spoon with her tongue and then pointed with it toward the counter. He followed the invisible line extending from the tip of the utensil and found... His keys. Sitting there. On the island. Just… Haphazard. Sprawled, not heaped. Like someone had tossed them for fun to see where they'd land.

"Thanks," he muttered as he shuffled to grab them. When had he… He tried to scrape his mind for a memory of coming into the kitchen with his keys, but… Nothing. It was all blank. He'd made a sandwich earlier for lunch. But… He hadn't had his keys then. Had he? He couldn't…

He yanked a hand through his hair, not realizing he was pacing, pacing, pacing, until Izzie cleared her throat and he jarred to a halt. "Dr. Shepherd, are you okay?" Izzie asked, her doe eyes wide and... Concerned.

"Fine," he said. "I'm fine."

He walked out into the foyer and waited. For a second. And then he started to pace. He couldn't… Not pace. He had to… Something. Do. Why was… Everything started to ache. The room swam, and his stomach roiled.

Not. No. Stop. No. He reached forward with his palm and caught himself on the wall. He leaned. Put his forehead against the wall and breathed. The smooth, dried paint felt cool against his forehead. Pounding. His head was… pounding. Every sound in the house seemed amplified. Meredith clunked around upstairs, high heels striking down like anvils on the hardwood floors. Izzie… Laughed. Something had made her laugh. Shrill. Fluttery. Long. The sound of it made him feel like something was crawling down his spine, and not in a pleasant way.

He swallowed.

Something was wrong. Was something wrong? He'd felt awful. All day, he'd felt awful. All yesterday. He'd slept, finally had a chance to rest in peace and quiet, uninterrupted. And even despite that, he'd woken up with a headache. A headache that ibuprofen had refused to fix. He couldn't… Concentrate. On anything. But. He had PCS. He was supposed to feel awful.

Supposed to… Nothing. Nothing wrong. In the wrong, wrong sense. It was just…

The door slammed next to him, and he pushed away from the wall, drawing the back of his hand up to his mouth as things unsettled again and the room swirled. Alex stood just past the threshold in the foyer, staring at him. "Dr. Shepherd," he said, his tone neutral as his eyes wandered up and down. "Sharp. You and Meredith going out?"

Derek inhaled three short breaths, trying to calm down. "Yes," he said, dropping his hand slowly to his side as the sick feeling slipped away like a burglar in the dark as quickly as it had come, leaving him just… a pile of aching.

"Cool," Alex said. "You all right, man? You look…"

"I'm fine," Derek snapped. "I'm…" He blinked. Relax, he had to relax. He breathed.

Alex spread his hands in front of him in a silent gesture of surrender. "Have fun with Meredith."

Meredith clonked to the top of the steps. Derek looked up with a smile as she came down. She was… Breathtaking. Everything… Everything fell away. His headache. His sudden streak of absentmindedness. He felt like crap, but… It didn't seem to matter anymore. His brain had a list, and concussion dropped down on the rungs, falling down behind Meredith, falling down behind proposals, falling down behind… Self. Concussion seemed… unimportant… unimportant and small. And, for a moment… Relief.

He stared as she took step after step, her hips swaying, arm along the railing to keep her balance despite her heels. The black dress she wore was a simple one. It stopped just above her knees, long enough to be elegant, short enough to be… hot. Really hot. The curves… She had… Curves. And.

"Meredith," he said as Alex grunted and disappeared down the hallway into the kitchen. "You look… You look…"

She laughed lightly. Dark circles hugged her eyes, circles she hadn't exactly been able to hide, even with the subtle attempts at cover up she'd used. But… The laugh? The dress? The smile? She was…

Perfect.

"You know," she commented as she interlocked arms with him, and they walked out of the house toward the car. "The fact that I can twist up your tongue when I look as crappy as I do now? It's really kind of cute," she said.

"You don't look—"

"Please," she said with a dull sigh, interrupting his protest. "What do you think all the cursing was about? Thanks, though. And you? You look… Like…" She licked her lips. "Okay, the suit is really emphasizing a whole Derek is a freaking present theme. Makes me want to unwrap you."

"Naughty, naughty, Dr. Grey," he said, grinning wickedly at her, only to have it fall away from his face as they approached the car. He… Driving. He… Bright lights still bothered him. Even at night, that could get… bad. Bad if…

"I shouldn't," he said as his chest tightened. He shouldn't, but… She'd been carting him around all week and it… Stung. Not because she was doing it for him or anything. No, he didn't… Mind that. She was probably the only one in the world he'd let in far enough that he found it nice… Having somebody. To… lean on. Sometimes. The bother didn't come from the fact that Meredith had to do things for him. It was just… That he couldn't.

"It's fine," Meredith said. Her initial smiles and cheer cracked a little around the edges. She was… tired. From dull edges of her gaze, he could tell. From the subtle way she economized her movements. She was tired, and now she was going to have to drive because he just… couldn't.

He felt awful, and she was tired. "Meredith, we could just…" Stay home. The back of his throat ached. He swallowed against the lump. Curling up in sweatpants on the couch shouldn't be that… attractive. It…

Concussion jumped back up a rung on the list, back into his definitive awareness.

"No," she said, her voice clipped.

And another, and another…

He sighed. "Okay."

He walked around to the passenger side of the car, pulled the door open, which took considerably more effort than it should have, and collapsed into the dark, sliding against the leather seats. He pulled his seatbelt across his lap and blinked slowly. His eyelids seemed like weights. And then the moment sharpened. He clawed his hand at his pocket. Keys. They were there.

Okay.

He resettled. Meredith turned the ignition. And they were off. The trip was mostly a quiet one, and the seconds seemed to drag. The darkness of the cabin crept around him like a soothing blindfold, and he started to feel exhausted all over again. It was hard. Hard not to drift off. The conversation was… Not there. Because she was tired. And he was tired, and achy, and… He just couldn't… Play. He couldn't play right then. And a lot of the silent spaces between them relied on play to stay full. She wasn't playing either. Tired. Grouchy. No playing.

They were forcing it. Why? He'd wanted to do something that he could do. Romance his lady. Except Meredith was driving, and he felt very far from romantic right then, trying to shove happiness through the clog of other stuff collecting in his head right then. Every once in a while, he'd panic, and his hands would slam to his pockets to search for his keys. It was… Nerve-wracking. Nerve-wracking to suddenly wonder if he'd forgotten something important. Something essential. He shouldn't have suggested this…

But why had she gone with it?

She'd taken the dinner idea and bitten down like a Rottweiler. Why? She was tired. She obviously wanted to sleep as much as he did. It didn't make sense. He felt like the answer should be easy. It should be easy, but in the cloud of everything else, he just couldn't… grasp it.

It wasn't until they had arrived at their favorite little Italian place, until after they had taken their seats in a romantic corner, that he'd started… To get it. When she began fishing through her appetizer with a fork, her lips curled with a smile and a look of guarded almost-surprise, waiting to explode into thrill, the first inkling whittled at the mental fog surrounding him. When she dipped a spoon into her wineglass, and it clinked against the crystal sides as she dug around, he finally understood.

She'd thought… She'd thought he was going to…

And then he felt worse, watching her as she withdrew her spoon and flicked the wine off it. The glow on her face cracked a little around the edges, but she looked determined, looked curious, as if she was wondering where the hell else he'd hide it. It. The ring. He should have… Thought of it. Should have… thought of something. Should have at least spent five fucking minutes that day thinking about it… At all. Thoughts should have been dedicated to the planning. Because she wanted… She'd said yes, and all she'd asked of him in return was a damned moment with him on his knees. But.

Thinking hurt.

It just…

Hurt.

"Mere, I'm not proposing," he said quietly. "Not tonight."

"Oh," she said.

He tried not to let himself get sucked into the undertow of her dragging disappointment. The glow bled out of her face, and her smile, what was left of it, fell into a flat line, leaving just tired Meredith behind. And he felt… Awful. The space behind his eyes throbbed. He leaned down onto his hands, tenting his hands over his nose, and sighed as he clawed his fingers down, down, down.

The waiter delivered their main courses while they sat in silence. He'd ordered grilled salmon. She'd ordered chicken marsala. Curling steam wound up from both dishes, and the smell… They smelled delicious and spiced and warm and moist. All sorts of bright greens and yellows garnished his pink fish with color. It was a beautiful display of culinary art.

But it was art to him at that moment.

Not food.

"I'm sorry," he said as Meredith cut a small precision sample of her chicken with surgical efficiency. "I… I haven't been feeling that well. I didn't… Didn't really think about..." How best to ask you for your life.

"It's okay," she replied, her voice quiet. She drew her fork to her lips and tasted. Her chewing started at a stormy pace, but her energy waned over the course of passing moments, like she was a sprinter realizing she was stuck in a marathon. She swallowed weakly, and then she set her fork down on the edge of her plate with a clink.

He swallowed. She never ate like that. Like a bird. Picking at things. She was Meredith. She sucked down food like she was some sort of starving refugee, like she was a strange new breed of human who didn't have to chew.

"No, it's not," he said. "You looked like you were going to burst, Mere. And then you just…" Deflated. "I didn't mean to… I should have planned something. I could ask, now," he added, trying not to let hope bleed into his voice, because he knew what she would say. He knew it was… Useless. "I could. I could, and then you could put the ring on when we go home. It's in my sock drawer."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I want…"

He sighed. "You want me to wow you."

"I'm already wowed, Derek," she said, a whisper, but… Honest. And that made him hurt a little less. "I just… I want a good story to tell everyone. To tell our…" She looked at her lap, her lithe fingers fiddling with something fake-interesting, a fold in her napkin, perhaps, and for a moment, she remained silent, pondering, like she was debating… how much. How much to say. And then her gaze darted up. She stared at him, her eyes wide and watery and serious. The candlelight on the table reflected against her pupils, and she… Took a breath. A small breath. Another. "To tell our kids or something."

"Kids," he echoed. Echoed like he was a vacant chasm through which her voice had passed. The word was dull and distant.

The restaurant stopped. The miserable cluster of moments they'd been stuck in… stopped. The hush of voices stopped, other couples bent on romancing each other and actually doing a passing job at it… stopped. The clinks of silverware stopped. The busboys stopped. The waiters stopped. The warm food smells stopped. It all… stopped.

The scenery broke away like jigsaw pieces, ripped from the picture, and it was just him and Meredith, sitting at a small, square table with a pristine white tablecloth. Darkness stretched into a void beyond them. Flame writhed on the wick of the centerpiece candle like a dancer. It made the silver bread plate glow. It made Meredith… glow.

"Well, maybe…" she replied in a tiny, frightened voice, as though she were terrified, terrified that she'd given him too much. "Maybe kids." She clasped her fingers around her wineglass, tilted it back, and took a chugging sip before returning it to the table.

"I thought…" Derek said, the air… The air had stopped, too. And he couldn't… Find it. "You said. I…"

She smiled, wry and weary, at him. "I say a lot of stupid things when I'm scared."

"Really?"

"What, you find it hard to believe?"

"No," he said, his voice catching on a breath that sliced the syllable. "I do, too. No… I meant. Kids?"

He clenched his fingers around the napkin lying on his lap, clenched and started twisting. Something thick and solid blocked his throat, and his eyes started to stab at him, joining the headache throb in a sonata of discomfort. He tried to swallow. Colors sharpened.

"Derek, I'm not ready," Meredith said. "Not now. But… When I get further into my residency… Well… No promises. I don't want to get your hopes up or anything. I'm… I think I'd be a crappy mom. But…"

"I…" This was the part where he was supposed to say she wasn't going to be a crappy mom. This was the part where he was supposed to leap up and say… things. Dreamy things. They all insisted he was McDreamy, which he'd always thought was… A rather optimistic view. But he… Thoughts stumbled on his tongue and died in a tangle of thought corpses, and his throat… His throat closed up.

"I just wanted you to know I'm not completely against the idea."

"You're not," he said, trying not to let the cautious disbelief wind a noose around his throat and strangle his words away from him. He couldn't… She had to be serious. She wouldn't joke… Joke about that. Not with him. Because… Meredith didn't have a nasty bone in her body. She could be mean, sometimes, but not… cruel. Not malicious. And he…

"No," she said. "I'm not against it."

He wrapped his hand, the hand he wasn't strangling his napkin with, around his crystal water glass. The slick, condensed surface felt cool against his skin. Cool and comforting and… Real. Real, it was… Real. The ice inside started clinking, clinking as he gripped it. He wanted to pick it up and try to wash away the horrible feeling in his throat. But he somehow knew the glass would slip and crash.

"So…" He breathed. "Maybe."

"Yes, maybe."

"Maybe kids," he whispered. "Maybe."

"Derek, you're shaking," she said, her eyes trailing to the glass he clutched. The ice cubes wandered, bumped, clinked as the energy slipped out of his hand and into them. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said. "I'm… You wouldn't be a crappy mom. You… Really? Kids? Really?"

The space between them started to blur and twist like melting wax. He wiped his face with the backs of his palms, and everything sharpened again. He blinked. Blinked, blinked, blinked.

"Derek…" she said, her voice small and… thick and full of… fear. "I-- I'll think about it, okay? That's the best… Best I can offer. I'm just… Not ready. But I… You needed to know. That I was… Maybe."

"Okay…" he said. "I… Okay."

Everything lost focus. Everything hurt. He blinked, and the view didn't get fixed. He swept at his face, but it didn't do a thing.

"Are you all right?" Meredith asked. "You're… Not being Derek-y."

"I'm…" Breaking. "Thank…" He sucked in a breath, and it felt like his whole torso was twisting. "Thank you."

Meredith was… She was exhausted. She'd come along on this dinner only because she'd been expecting him to propose. He'd shot her one wish down, and now she was… She was… Making everything he'd ever wanted come true. The last remaining holdout in his life. Kids. Maybe kids. And it…

"Derek…" she said. "Are you?"

"No," he said. He sounded faint. Faint and… Weak. He knew he sounded… "No…"

She drew her hands up to her face and covered her mouth. But her eyes… The skin around them crinkled, and everything… Lit. "You totally are," she said, and even in her voice he could hear the smile that yanked at her features.

"No," he protested. "I'm…" Not crying.

He looked down at his lap and put his face in his hands, breathing, breathing, his desperation curling his torso in a wave of jerky, uncontrolled motion. The ache behind his eyes was nothing compared to the swell of… everything. Everything. Kids. Meredith was saying… Maybe. Kids, maybe. And…

It was one thing to come to terms with not ever getting a chance to be a dad. That had been a slow sort of thing. A gradual sort of thing. Over the years. The longer he and Addison had waited. They'd had… The talk. Once. Early. When she'd said she hadn't been ready. She hadn't been ready, and he had been. He'd been ready. He'd wanted… But he'd forced it all down and told himself to be patient. To be patient and wait. And he'd waited. And he'd waited. And he'd waited. And the moment when Addison said she was ready… The moment had never come. As the years passed, the waiting… Stopped. Somewhere in the slow march of his life, the waiting had become bitter acceptance. Quiet acceptance.

It was another thing entirely to have the dream come snarling back into his head all at once. Long suppressed hope made his muscles quiver, and he felt… Nauseated. So sick with it, with the overwhelming force of it, he was nauseated. Kids. Kids, maybe. With Meredith. And then the floor was falling away, and he was floating. Floating. On top of the rest of it, the misery he'd been carrying around all day. Floating on top of it. Above it.

He wiped his eyes with his thumb and his index finger. They came away from his skin salty and wet and… He couldn't even bring himself to feel embarrassed. He was just… Tired. And he hurt. And now he was so happy he couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't stop himself from…

An emotionally strangled sound fell out of him before he could halt it, squeezed out by the burn in his lungs. It tore across his throat and just… tumbled out of him. It wasn't a sob. Or any sort of thing that could have a label applied to it. It was just… Everything. Everything he was feeling right then crammed and stuffed and twisted into one overwhelming syllable.

He took a moment to gather himself back up into something with a semblance of not being shattered and only partially managed it. He felt like he was going to break with another jab. Break into a thousand pieces. Too much. Too much right then when… Everything inside his head was already broken. When he looked up, Meredith was still there, still smiling behind her hands.

"Okay," she said as he wiped his face again. Again. Again. "The spices. They sting. They're doing a stinging thing."

"Yeah," he said, his voice low and weak and warbling. He grinned at her, despite the churning, despite everything. Because…

"This is happy stinging, at least, right?"

"Yeah," he repeated. He found it amazing that she could still surprise him like that, still… Tear everything out from under him and… Go for the jugular. He breathed.

She made him happy.

"Okay. Just making sure because… That was weird," she said. She picked up her fork and took another small, testing bite of her chicken. "The noise thing. Weird. And the… Well… Never mind. I'm glad. I'm glad that you're…" Her voice trailed away. She finished chewing, swallowed. Derek stared down at his salmon, but it looked even less appetizing than it had before. His head was swimming. Swimming in the overload. Swimming, throbbing. Happy. He was definitely happy. But there was a lot of other badness crawling around, and it was just…

Overwhelming.

"But, Derek," she continued, rattling on, "If you don't propose soon, you're right. I think I'm going to burst. Really, really burst. Like…into a puddle of Meredith bits. I can't. Please. The happy that you just felt? I've been stuck with it all day, all yesterday. And I can't… Please. Even if it's dumb. Even if there're puppets. I'll say yes."

He blinked. "Puppets?"

"Um… Yeah," she said. Her face flushed, and she looked down at her hands. "I… Never mind."

"You want this bad enough that…" Puppets? What? "But I can't do this now?"

"Now doesn't count," she insisted. "It's cheating because I told you. You're supposed to be… It's supposed to…" The look on her face sharpened into a playful glare. "Why am I telling you this? You've already had practice."

"My proposal to Addison was practice," he said flatly.

"That's my very bright and shiny view of things, yes," she said. He couldn't help but grin back at her, grin and… not stop. She made him happy. She made him… It was so nice. To feel happy. Despite the rest. So nice. "What?" she snapped.

"You're just…" His voice trailed away as he searched for something. Anything to describe her. He failed. Dismally. But that was okay. He grinned instead. "You."

She propped her elbows on the table, rested her chin in her hands, and leaned toward him. "Yeah," she said, smiling back. "And the me that I am is wanting the you that you are in the forever type sense. Seriously. So, get with the planning thing, already, please, because I really. Really. Really want to say yes."

"Again."

She laughed. "I prefer to think of it as positive, non-naked reinforcement of an idea that was very nice. Naked nice. But nice. I really want to tell everyone, Derek."

"Okay," he replied softly. "You know, people already think all we do is have sex… You could just…"

She frowned. "You noticed that, too? Maybe we should get a joint hobby outside of the bedroom and the hospital."

"Fishing?" he said, trying not to sound hopeful. He didn't expect her to go for it, but… Hell, he had to try. She'd given him a yes and maybe kids. Why not a woman who actually liked fishing?

She rolled her eyes. "A hobby that doesn't involve the murder of helpless… finned… water denizen… things."

"Fish, Meredith. They're called fish. And you don't have to kill the ones you catch," he said. "You can just put them back…"

The look she gave him was priceless. "Then what's the point of…" she began, only to stop herself. She stared at him for a moment, her features shaking with silent laughter. She tipped her gaze to the ceiling in a classic boys-will-be-boys look of hopelessness, and then she continued, "Never mind. Anyway… I just… Knee. You. It's… I don't know why I want it, but…"

"It's payback for the wife thing," he said, nodding, smiling. "You want me on my knees, begging for you, I get it."

She laughed. "See? There's that humility again. So charming."

"I am charming," he said. He winked at her and gave her a slanting smirk. "That's me."

She leaned in closer. "My knight in shining… whatever," she replied in a low, smoky murmur.

"Scrubs," he said. "Can I at least get some real clothes in this metaphor? I seem to be doing naked things far too often."

Another priceless look, this time leering, lascivious, and suggestive. And that's bad because? her gaze said as it wandered up and down, soaking in the sight of him. But she held her tongue that time and grinned. "Fine," she snapped, but it was… a playful snap. "Knight in shining scrubs. Though, if they're scrubs… And shiny… How do scrubs get shiny?" Her eyes twinkled, and she blinked, lowering her long lashes down against her cheeks in a way that made his breath catch. She was beautiful.

He laughed. "I don't know. It was your metaphor."

"Whatever," she said, rolling her eyes again. "I told Susan, by the way. That we're… Sort of. That we're sort of engaged. I had to… I had to tell someone."

"Meredith, you can tell anyone you want. You're the one who wanted to keep quiet until I figure out how to do this with clothes on."

"I know," she said. Her breath caught, and she paused, paused for a long enough moment that the happiness he'd been feeling bled a little, and he became aware of his discomfort again. "Derek…" she began, her voice cracking. His heart started to thump in a painful way. She…

"What?" he asked, bracing himself.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you, too," he replied, automatic, reflexive. He did. He loved her so much. But this was a precursor to something. Something bad. Or she wouldn't have paused. And that…

He blinked against the pounding. Bad was bad. He tried to bolster himself up in preparation, but he felt like he was trying to make clumps of cotton behave like a statue. He couldn't…

"I… Are you okay? Waiting?" she finally asked.

For a moment, he had relief. That was easy. That was an easy question. "To tell people? I don't mind, Meredith. Whatever you want, I—"

"No, I mean. Well. Kids. The kids thing. Waiting."

Okay, that wasn't so easy. He tried to ignore the sinking feeling.

"Why wouldn't I be?" he began, his voice low and cautious.

"It's just…" she stuttered. "Well you're…" She paused to take a breath. "Derek, you're almost forty. What if…"

"What if…" he echoed, his voice weak. There was that almost forty thing. Again. Again, there it was. He was reminded of the plane and the cab ride in the city. Nearly forty, nearly forty. He'd… Happily thrown that to the wayside. Later, Derek, she'd said. Both times. For a moment, it'd made him uneasy, but he'd allowed her to let it go. Both times. And, now, there it was again. Again. Again. And she was… She was bringing it up. She was bringing it up, and that probably meant… She was also going to follow through and tell him. He wasn't sure this was a good time, he wasn't sure… But… If he let it go, if he told her to stop… He might never pry it back out of her. She… Avoided. And… He tried to ignore the unsettling, tearing feeling that held him in its grip.

"What if what?" he asked, his voice twisting. Here's my heart. Please, try not to set the blender on puree. He didn't know if he could do this right then, not on top of everything else, but he'd try. Because she'd started it, he'd try.

"Derek, even if I only wait until I'm a fourth year resident, that's… You'll be forty-three. And then if we got pregnant, you'd be almost forty-four when... And I just…"

Quivery tension held his body hostage, waiting. Waiting for the anvil.

"Meredith, lots of kids have older parents these days…"

"I know but… I keep thinking of…" She blinked, and salty tears spilled down her cheeks. She was crying. Why. Why was? "Things."

"Things?" he echoed, unable to do much else. He didn't… understand. He didn't understand, and his head was throbbing, and she was crying. Why did it have to matter? There was only a seven and a half year gap. It didn't have to be the Grand Canyon. But she was crying and…

"All these things where if I wait," she continued, her voice losing steam for a moment before she breathed and struggled onward, "If I wait until I'm ready, that'd be unfair, because you'll have been more than ready for a long time and I just… It's…"

"Meredith," he whispered. Stop. Stop it. Stop. Too much.

"Time," she continued. Ignoring. Ignoring him. But he wasn't speaking, wasn't saying stop. He was only thinking it. "I feel like…"

"What?" he prodded, jab, jab, jabbing himself with the needle.

"You're going to die," she said abruptly.

He blinked. "What?"

"You're going to die," she said, sniffling, wiping at her face, "And then I'll be alone again, and I…"

"Meredith," he said. "Is that… That's why you don't like that I'm older?"

She nodded, a little twittering motion that gave him the impression of a frightened rabbit getting ready to bolt. "Women live longer than men. And you. You've already got a head start on me, and I…"

"Meredith…"

"I'm sorry. I'm…"

"Meredith, those averages are skewed to hell because of smokers, drinkers, heart disease, stroke, and cancer," he said, blinking, blinking, because the room was starting to blur again, and it had nothing to do with overwhelming anything. Just crushing… Something. The highs and lows of this conversation were beginning to tear him apart bit by hurting bit. Puree… Understatement. "You know that."

"But…"

"This?" he said, gesturing uselessly between the two of them. He couldn't fix… Couldn't fix this. His chest twisted with a snapping sort of pain, and his throat… He cleared it once, twice, but the vocalization of it was an ugly, dark, uncomfortable thing. "This is why I eat salads, Meredith. This is why I don't smoke except for the rare cigar. This is why I don't get drunk unless... This is why… Look. You can't… You just can't worry about this stuff. Not now."

What a useless thing to say. Don't worry. Useless. But what else was there?

"I… You just don't understand," she said. "You won't… You won't have to lose me."

He stilled. Meredith… Never cruel. But she could be mean. And she was being… Very mean. Right then. Mean because… sometimes… She was just so… self-involved.

"Meredith, I already have once," he said. "I know exactly how it feels."

"For three hours," she said. Mean. Mean. As if she didn't understand what he'd been through. Except he knew she understood. Because she'd watched him throw up in the toilet about it. She'd watched him cry. She'd watched him try to not remember it, watched him as he'd sat there against the door of the guest bedroom, tense, close to breaking. She'd jabbed the memories out of him with sharp knives of words.

_Think, Derek. _

Jab.

_What happened?_

Jab.

_What did I look like when you found me?  
_

Jab.

_When did you find me? _

Jab.

_How long did it take?_

Jab.

_Did you find me in the water?_

Jab.

_How did you find me in the water, Derek? _

Jab.

_Did you carry me to an ambulance? _

Jab.

_What happened then?_

Jab.

She'd seen him for the wreck that he'd been. He'd…

How could she?

"Three hours that I will never. Ever. Forget. Meredith…" He squeezed his eyes shut, glad he hadn't even touched his food yet, because his stomach churned, was churning, rolling, roiling, rebelling. She'd been cold and dead and blue in his arms, and he knew. He'd always know. He knew about…

Dying.

"It's not the same," she whispered.

"Tell me how it's not the same, Meredith," he said, his voice harsh and grating and twisted over his vocal cords. He couldn't… Do this.

"Because," she said. "Because it won't happen again."

He blinked. "That's…"

"It won't," she insisted. "You know it won't."

"Meredith," he replied. "You can't be serious."

"What?" she said, her voice suddenly weak, as if he'd punched the air out of her and she was struggling to recover. "Of course, I'm freaking serious. Derek, you can't possibly think I'd… Do that. Again. I… You… You can't."

"You can't say it doesn't matter because it won't happen again," he growled. She'd been dead. She'd been dead in his arms. That. Mattered. She couldn't… He panted, but the air in the room, it simply wasn't enough to stoke him. His head swam, swam in the memory of Meredith, drowning. His heartbeat throbbed against his temples. Everything. Hurt. He reached for her in the water, but it was… Too late. "You…. I spent three hours thinking you were dead. Dead. Gone. Don't you dare… Belittle… I know what it feels like, Meredith. I know… I…"

"Derek, I'm sorry," she whispered, as if she were finally realizing. Finally realizing what she was saying. To him. To him. The one who'd yanked her corpse from the water. Her cold, dead corpse. She just didn't… Think. Sometimes.

He shook his head. "I can't…" The words popped out of his mouth, breathy, quiet, tiny, barely. But it was a crushing admission, and it felt like a sucking wound in his chest. He couldn't. Not get older. He couldn't… Not die. He couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't.

"I don't want to be alone again," she said. "You make me so happy. And I… I don't want it to go away. I don't want it to go away again. The part where it went away sucked."

He rested his head against his hands. "I don't either."

"But…"

"Meredith, if I let how I felt during those three hours you were dead own me… If I let that happen, I'd never… I'd wilt. You can't… I can't..."

Can't, can't, can't.

"Derek…"

"I can't tell you I'm not going to die, Meredith," he said. He blinked. He was crying. He knew he was crying. He was wrecking everything. What was he supposed to say? "But it's…" He breathed. "Not now. I'm here now." The addition felt useless.

"But what about the later?" she asked. "You won't be the one left behind…"

"Meredith," he whispered, grating, harsh. "You don't know that. You can't know that. This year should prove that to you better than anything I could say."

Having an argument over who was going to die first. It wasn't something he'd ever expected to be discussing. Dying… He didn't want her to die. Never. But it would happen. Dying was a part of living. He couldn't control it. He couldn't fix it. It was the one of the few things in the world that would always be constant. End of life. Because life… Also constant. And here he was, arguing that she might die first. Arguing that she might somehow die first, because… It would make her feel better.

And that seemed… Wrong. And twisted. And…

Wrong.

They wouldn't be having this argument if he were younger. It would have been left unsaid. Death would have been Russian roulette, spinning in the gun chamber, waiting for either of them, but both of them would have had an equal chance. A year goes by. Click. Empty chamber. A year goes by. Click. Empty chamber. A year goes by. Until one year… The bullet hits. Both of them would have had an equal chance, and he wouldn't be arguing with her that she might, by some grace, die first. To make her fucking feel better.

It wasn't a grace to die first.

It made him sick to think of it. Because he knew. He knew her dead. And he didn't like her dead. Not breathing. Cold. His world was gone with her dead.

And it was almost inevitable, barring anything else, any other crazy disaster, that she would have to live with that feeling when he was gone. So, he could either wish for her to go first, which made him feel sick, or accept the inevitable, and feel sick about what he would be leaving her with.

He pressed the back of his palm into his mouth and tried to push the memories away.

He felt like a fool for not… Considering.

Can't, can't, can't.

She looked down at her hands and sighed. "I guess…" she began after the longest of pauses. "I guess as far as track records go, mine kind of sucks. Doesn't it." It wasn't a question.

"Kind of," he answered, bitter, the words snaking around the edges of his palm, which he wouldn't put down yet. Because the room was spinning, and his head hurt, and, "Yeah."

"You're not doing so great, either, though," she replied. She raised an eyebrow. "Two vehicular mishaps?"

"That sounds like," he said, unable to stop a breathy chuckle, despite the awful pain. He inhaled. "Like something naughty."

"You would think that, wouldn't you?" she replied, a sad grin on her face. She reached across the table and wrapped her fingers around his wrist, pulling his hand away from his mouth. He breathed, trying to still everything welling up inside. She squeezed his wrist, gently, and then slipped her grip down to his hand. Her skin felt warm. So warm against his. Her thumb pressed into his palm and stroked him. And it…

Old. He was old.

In that moment. He felt old.

"I'm… sorry, Derek," she said. "I didn't mean to make what you felt when I… I didn't mean to make that into something smaller than it was."

"We've both dealt with loss, Meredith," he replied quietly.

"You believe me, right? That I wouldn't…"

"I believe you. But…"

"But?"

"Please, Meredith," he said, knowing full and well how lost and begging he sounded. "I'm here. For you. You just have to… Let me. If you feel… Like that. You have to let me."

"I would," she insisted. "I'm trying. I'm getting better at the sharing. Sharing thing. Like the fact that I'll burst. If you don't pop the question."

He gave her a weak smile. "I will, Meredith. You really want something cheesy and elaborate?" Ignore the dissonance. Ignore. "I could just, you know… corner you in the locker room and ask you…"

"Knee," she snapped, a small grin twisting at her features. "Story. Maybe kids."

"Okay," he replied.

"I'm sorry I made this a sad date."

"We haven't even gotten to dessert yet," he said, trying to reassure her, but… He felt half-hearted. Barely. He was saying it because he was supposed to. "Still plenty of room for happy," he said, though his tone belied his words, revealed his sudden, crushing hopelessness.

"I don't think I can be happy tonight," she said. "I'm burnt out on the happy for a bit. I just… Sorry."

"I don't know how to fix it."

"You can't, Derek. You just… can't."

"Meredith, I'm not naïve," he said. "About my own mortality. I'm… Middle-aged. I may very well be at or past the mid point. But… The things I can do about that? Eat lettuce. Don't smoke. Don't drink. Avoid doing stupid things like riding motorcycles. I'm doing those. The rest…"

Can't, can't, can't.

"I know."

"I'm here now. I can't…" Guarantee anything else.

"I know," she whispered. "I know."

He pulled his hand away and put it into his lap. Sick. He felt… Sick. The room swam, and it had nothing to do with memories. He looked at his salmon. As long as he didn't consider it food, he could look at it. Art. Pretty. He shakily drew his fork into his hand, but he couldn't. The first piece of fish split away from the rest like butter. All he'd had to do was press the tines down against it. But… The strings of meat glistened in the dim light. Sick. He looked away. Sick. He was. He'd have to box it. He wasn't… Hungry.

At all.

"Derek…" Meredith whispered. "Your head. You… You took this time off for sleeping, right? Not because…" You feel like shit.

"I feel fine," he replied, even as a tiny, protesting voice slipped deep underneath his skin, winding, uncomfortable, wrong. Hypocrite. Hypocrite. Hypocrite. But how? How was he supposed to tell her he felt… Awful. Awful, when he'd just spent the better part of the conversation trying to convince her she might die before he did? "I'm…" Sick. "Fine."

Hypocrite. Hypocrite. Hypocrite.

"Okay," she whispered, smiling. She finally started working on her chicken marsala in earnest, and he was happy. Happy that, for once, he didn't seem to read like an open book. He was pretty sure his novel, were she to peruse it, would just make her feel worse at that moment. His novel said things like... Ouch. Sick. Nauseated. Sad. Hurts. Too bright. Colors are sharp. Forgot something. The conversation had been a cloak over the truth. A cloak. He wasn't sick, he wasn't… unhealthy. He was just upset. Upset, but… fine. Feeling fine. Recovering, now that the awful words had stopped. Fine. I feel fine.

White lie.

Just a little white lie.

It wouldn't hurt.

She shoveled food into her mouth in her usual, adorable manner, and he smiled at her. Weak. It was a weak smile against the throbbing in his head. He wanted to lie down. But he would watch her be at least a little happy for a few minutes. And that made him feel a little less… Ill. Maybe kids. He latched onto that. Maybe kids. Maybe. He could smile if he thought about that. That was smile-worthy.

He would get his salmon boxed.


	35. Chapter 33

**Author's Notes: Thanks for the comments all :) I guess everyone really was on vacation! You guys are just great!**

* * *

When they climbed into the car, Meredith was tired. She was tired, and stuffed, and she wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed. She had to get up at four for another long shift, and it was already well into the evening. She sighed, trying to ignore the fullness that made the creeping tiredness behind her eyes all that much worse. The chicken marsala had been delicious, the portion had been huge, and she'd… Well, she'd stuffed her face with it. She'd been so full by the time she'd taken her last bite, so full and so exhausted on top of that, she hadn't even bothered to suggest dessert. Derek had looked nauseated by the mere sight of his salmon, and he hadn't said a word when she'd blatantly skipped asking for dessert. Which was weird.

Because they always had dessert. Usually both of them split something, more rarely just one of them had something and the other had a bite or two, but somebody always had dessert. It was one of the only times she could reliably get him off his health kick. Dessert when they went out for dinner. It was their thing. Cheesecake. He loved cheesecake. And brownie sundaes. And those large hulking chocolate cake and fudge things usually named aptly after a natural disaster. Chocolate flood. Chocolate hurricane. Fudge volcano. He loved them. Or maybe she did and he, out of the kindness of his heart, suffered with her. Whatever. The point was they always had one of those. Or something else really, really bad, but really, really good. They usually fought over who had to eat the last piece because they both wanted to sacrifice it, and it was… cute. It was their thing. But Derek hadn't even blinked when it'd been skipped.

Aside from looking vaguely sick over his dinner, though, after the discussion, henceforth known as The Discussion, had ended, he'd sat there, expressionless, almost like… Like he'd been trying too hard, like his expression had been the duck, and the thoughts tumbling through him had been the little duck feet, churning, frantic, trying to keep their duck owner afloat, but invisible under what appeared to be a calm surface.

He hadn't touched his food. At all. She'd been expecting him to start working on it after The Discussion had settled more into relative silence, but no. He'd had the whole thing boxed after she'd finished off the last bite of her chicken. He'd touched it. The salmon. Once. With his fork, she'd seen him tear away a little piece of meat. She had no idea where the piece had gone, but she certainly hadn't seen him eat it. Not once had he actually raised his fork to his lips. He hadn't drunk any water either. For a while, he'd seemed almost afraid to pick up the glass, but the wariness had petered into disinterest as the moments had passed. He hadn't touched the wine, though, that hadn't seemed as odd, since ibuprofen and alcohol didn't mix so well sometimes, and she suspected he might have taken some. Ibuprofen. Not prior closet doses of wine. That would have been more her style of painkilling.

Something had to be wrong. She'd begun to notice he'd been acting oddly in the car on the way to the restaurant. The dozing she'd assumed had been general tiredness wreaking its usual havoc on his energy. He'd been easily tired lately. But when she'd watched him snap awake and clutch at his pocket for what had seemed like the third time in less than ten minutes, like he'd been double-checking to make sure he'd remembered something important. She'd chalked it up to… Well, she'd thought he'd been going to propose. She'd thought he'd been fretting over the ring. Why proposing would make him nervous when he already knew what the answer would be? She'd had no clue. But it'd made sense at the time, and she'd sat there silently, trying not to explode with excitement, afraid that if she'd said anything, it would have been something babbly and stupid and very indicative that she'd known exactly what he'd been planning.

Except now, in true context, his behavior didn't make sense at all. Because he hadn't even remotely considered proposing. So, what did that mean?

Upset. He had to be. Despite the flat look of nothingness on his face. Despite the fact that everything about his demeanor screamed I'm fine. Because when did anyone ever need to scream about being fine, except when he or she was just trying to convince everyone else about it when it wasn't true? She had the whole fine-screaming thing down to an art form, and people still knew she was lying. He didn't. No artistry there. The whole thing was just too manufactured.

She should have stopped The Discussion at the maybe kids thing, when everything had still been mostly happy. He'd… The reaction to the maybe kids thing had been worth the dinner, absent proposal notwithstanding. He'd been almost shell-shocked at first. He'd lost several shades in his pallor while he'd grappled with what she could only assume was disbelief. But, then, there'd been a moment. The moment where he'd finally let himself process what she'd been saying, that she might be willing to try out being a parent. Everything had fallen away, his eyes had glistened, and then he'd started to cry. Happy crying, he'd assured her. She'd had to ask because he'd looked so distraught. And overwhelmed. She'd known he wanted kids, but she'd had no idea the desire was so deep-seated. So visceral.

She'd seen him cry a couple of times by then, all of them while he flailed under a heavy crush of anxiety or regret or something sad. She'd never seen the maybe kids reaction before. And she never wanted to forget it. She didn't think she ever could. It'd made her want to cry right along with him. Because it'd made what he'd said before so much more… More.

_If having kids means I can't have you… It's… It's not a deal breaker. That you don't want them. It's not._

She'd made up her mind within about five seconds of seeing his reaction that the parent thing wasn't going to be an idle consideration. It wasn't going to be some flighty idea, hovering in the background while she waited for inspiration to lead her down the path of yes or no. She was really going to think about it. Really. Derek Shepherd wanted kids. He wanted them in an I'd-trade-my-left-arm-for-them sense. He deserved to have her think really hard about it. He'd already given up so much. So, the kid thing was next on her list just a soon as she dealt with wedding dates. Which she was absolutely positive she wasn't quite ready for yet. So, she had a while, but she would definitely make it an active thing, a weigh the pros and cons on the mental scale thing, a serious thing.

She blinked. She should have stopped there. Stopped there on that gift. But, no, she'd pressed into the badness of death and dying and him being older, and that hadn't gone so well. She'd been stupid, and whiny, except…

Every time she came to the conclusion she'd been stupid and whiny, Ellis Grey walked past her in a dark hallway.

_You shouldn't be here…_

And suddenly she didn't feel so whiny. Meredith had died. Ellis had died. People around her died. All the time, they died. And Derek was going to die. Someday. Inevitably. Most likely before she would. Eight years, even if he lived to be a hundred. Eight years was still a good chunk. And that was…

Too much.

She shoved it away. It was a terrifying thing. A terrifying mountain of not happy, being without him again after all this. All this… everything. She felt complete for the first time in her life. But there was nothing she could do about it except enjoy the forty or fifty years or more before it happened. She was scared, but Derek was right. She couldn't let it own her.

And she wouldn't. That had never been the plan.

But she'd had to say something. She was trying. Trying to do the sharing thing. She wanted to share everything, but that was… That would take some building up to. Some bolstering. She was getting better, though. The kids thing. That had been good sharing. Good.

She sighed. Car. In the car. She had to drive. Do the driving thing. Not ponder about death and sharing and taxes and all that crap. She had to drive a mysteriously reticent, mysteriously expressionless Derek. She bit her lip.

"Did your salmon not taste good?" she asked as she turned the key in the ignition, anything to breach the silence, anything to get him out of that deadness. The car rumbled to a start, and the air conditioner started breathing cool air out of the vents. Seattle was already chilly and wet with the nighttime air, so she flipped the blowers off. The paper bag containing Derek's boxed meal crinkled as he twisted in his seat and put it behind them. It smelled fishy.

As he turned back, he looked at her with a dull, schooled stare that said nothing. Well, everything. Because Derek's face never said nothing. So, that was something. Right?

"I just wasn't that hungry, Mere," he said, his voice just as flat as his expression. And then he turned to stare out the window, resting his head against the glass as he took a shallow, panty breath that made him, in that moment, look miserable, despite the overall reserve in his features.

"It wasn't the talk. Was it? I over-shared, didn't I? I didn't mean to make you feel bad. I'm still trying to… It was. I shared too much. I'm really sorry, Derek. I didn't mean to ruin the night. I really didn't. I just… I want this. I want this so much, sometimes I get really wrapped up in the doubting. Because good things? They don't normally happen to me, well, they didn't used to, anyway, and I… I'm sorry. I shouldn't be fussing about what might happen thirty or forty or fifty years down the road or something. It's… It's stupid to worry about it now. You're right. I'm stupid, being stupid. I didn't mean to—" She halted her babbling and sighed. "Over-sharing again," she said into the quiet space between them as she navigated the car out onto the street. Traffic was light. She flipped the windshield wipers on to stave off the thin, sprinkling sheets of drizzle. Water flicked off the glass as they went to work.

He swallowed, hunched over, staring dully out the window as the rain swept across the glass, blurring everything away. "It wasn't… Stupid. I'm glad. Glad you talked to me about it… I just…" He fell into silence again and rubbed the side of his forehead against the windowpane like it was balm.

"Because you seem just thrilled that I told you," she snapped before she could stop herself. She couldn't help it. She didn't know what she was doing. She didn't. And he was acting so bizarre.

His eyes slid shut, and he sighed, small, hitched, barely vocalized, but a little piece of a moan slipped out on top of it. He cut it off. Quickly. For a moment, his gaze flared, his fingers tightened and curled, and he looked like he was straining. Straining to pull himself back inward. She blinked, and the suffering disappeared behind a mask, leaving her almost wondering if she'd imagined it.

But it was too late. That had been… That was pain. Was he in pain? He seemed… When he'd had headaches in the past, he'd gotten visibly depressed, visibly mopey, but never this weird forced nothingness, albeit, with a few cracked places. A few cracked-open moments when he couldn't quite manage the façade.

"Derek, are you okay? Really?" she asked.

He lifted himself off the window and gave her a bright smile, except it was completely fake. Derek's eyes smiled, too, when he meant it. And right then, he didn't mean it. The skin around his eyes stayed flat and relaxed. His forehead remained still. There was no twinkle in his gaze. He didn't mean it. "I'm fine," he said.

A lump formed in her throat. He was lying. Flat out lying. Why?

"Derek, when I said…" She swallowed. "Earlier, when I said… That I was scared about you dying first… I didn't mean for it to change things. I didn't. I'm just telling you I'm scared. I love you enough to be scared. It's not a bad thing. Is it? I don't know what I'm doing here. I just need… I don't…" she babbled, stumbling on the words. The silence in the cabin loitering in the spaces between her syllables widened into an almost roar. He's not talking, a little voice whined. He's not helping. He's not participating. Something's wrong, wrong, wrong. She stopped the car for a red light and turned to him.

He stared out the window, his gaze blank. "You could jump in anytime with your infinite relationship wisdom stuff, you know," she grumbled, giving the words infinite relationship wisdom the air quotes they deserved. He was lying about being fine, and she knew it, and it hurt. Because he was taking her trust and shoving it.

Why?

She sat there panting, staring at him, watching, and something finally broke through on his face. Something. He swallowed, and the mask morphed from clinical and vacant into dark and brooding and hurt. A depressed Dr. Derek Jekyll or something. Hurt or hurting. She couldn't tell, and it was awful.

"I can't," he said, his voice quiet and twisted.

"Can't what?" she retorted. "Jump in? Give me something, Derek. I know you're… I know something is going on. I don't know what. I know you're lying, though. I just poured my babbly heart out to you. The least you could do is look at me."

He drew a hand up and pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes drooped shut. The coarse fabric of his suit rustled as he shifted. He'd lost it. Lost the hiding thing, mask, whatever. And this was definitely headachey-Derek. She was certain now. She'd grown to know him well over the last few days.

It was like he just didn't realize he was in pain until he was in agony, or until someone made him aware of it. She didn't understand it at all. She was pretty sure it wasn't some sort of macho thing. He usually fessed up as soon as she shoved a pill bottle at him. She guessed it was sort of like when she got hit with allergies in the springtime. Sometimes, she'd go the whole day, miserable, before realizing something was wrong, something fixable. She'd be grouchy and snappy and tired, her nose would run, and it wouldn't even occur to her that it was anything until she slowed herself down long enough to think about it. Allergies. Springtime. Pollen. Duh, Meredith. Maybe it was like that with him. Or, maybe, he was just stuck in the denial of I can, I can, I can, and he didn't like to focus inwardly long enough to admit he might be hurting. Maybe. Regardless, she had a feeling the oops-was-I-in-pain? stuff was going to be an annoying quirk to get used to over the years.

Except this time? This was different. This wasn't an oops. He was already in the know. The suffering sluiced off his skin like pelting rain over the edges of a clogged gutter. This had been intentional. Intentional hiding. But why? Why would he hide?

She reached across the parking brake and touched his thigh. She felt his muscles twitch and tighten through the fabric of his dress pants. He breathed into his hand, short and tight and uncomfortable-looking, almost as if the air itself was barbed. Pain. Definitely pain. She frowned.

"Hey," she said, her voice a low, concerned murmur. "Derek, this has got to stop. You have to take something when you feel bad. You--"

"I've taken enough painkillers today to give myself a stomach ulcer," he snapped, suddenly nasty. Dr. Derek Hyde slammed to the forefront. His stare flared with passionate fire, his face flushed. Teeth, snarling. She flinched back against the seat in surprise at his sudden animation. And then he wilted, Dr. Hyde died a mute, rapid death, and Derek added, "Sorry," in a breathless, quiet whisper, almost as an afterthought. "I'm… Sorry." His hand went back to the bridge of his nose, and he sat hunched, panting, like a fox caught in a claw trap, waiting to snap again, almost ready to gnaw at his own paw if it would just make the hurting stop.

She bit her lip. "The ibuprofen didn't take care of it?"

"No," he said.

The light turned green and she eased the car forward, careful not to jam on the accelerator too suddenly. He was… This looked bad. The light drizzle pattered against the windshield as it kicked up into actual rain. Light rain. But rain.

"Derek," she said, slow, calm, and then the words fell from her in a quick, worried rush, as though someone had hit her personal fast-forward button, "Why didn't you say anything? Is it getting worse? Your headache? How long has this been going on?"

"Just today," he said quietly. "Please, don't…" He breathed. "Yell. Please."

"Okay," she conceded, consciously yanking her voice from its shrill position in the rafters of panic down to the bleachers of calm. "Okay, I'm sorry. Do you think you need to go to the hospital?"

Hospital. Terrifying from a visitor perspective. People died there. The small, whining fear bit at the edges of her conscious thought, but she slapped it away and steeled herself.

"I don't know," he said. "I think it's just… PCS."

"But you don't know."

"No."

She stayed quiet for a minute, trying to think. PCS headaches weren't supposed to get worse like this. Were they? She couldn't remember. But… They were much closer to home than Seattle Grace at this point. Only three more blocks. And he would be more comfortable at home. She would be more comfortable at home.

"Will you let me look at you when we get back to the house?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied softly. He had his face in his hands, covered, and the word came out muffled, but he hadn't paused, hadn't had to think about it, which made her feel better, somehow.

After she pulled the car into the driveway, she watched him with an unwavering, intent gaze as he stepped slowly out of the car and shuffled down the walk, moving at a stilted pace despite the spattering rain. His leftover salmon bag crinkled as it hit his leg, step after step after step. He didn't seem like he was having difficulty with coordination, or having difficulty walking in general. He took his steps with care, almost as if he expected one good jar to break something inside, but, if he was in pain… That didn't really seem farfetched to her that he would be doing that. No. She was fairly certain she could rule out ataxia. He didn't seem disoriented, and he was speaking clearly enough, which ruled out two more of the serious red flags she could think of.

She followed him into the house, her heels click, click, clacking on the front walk as she trotted along, trying to beat the downpour's rate of seep into her clothes and failing. She was cold and soaked by the time she shut the door behind her. Derek made a lumbering detour into the kitchen to put his salmon in the refrigerator, and then they both trudged upstairs. Izzie and Alex were nowhere to be found, but Meredith wasn't really that interested in looking for them, anyway. She imagined Derek didn't want to run into anyone, either.

She closed the bedroom door behind her and locked it, just in case Izzie was around somewhere and in one of her rude let's-barge-in moods. Barging was bad. Right now. Bad.

Derek wrestled out of his suit, slipped into his pajamas, and sat down on his side of the bed while she changed out of her dress. Rain plinked down on the roof and against the window, providing a relaxing filler for the silence loitering between them. He looked up at her, his normally vibrant blue eyes dulled with a brooding layer of unhappiness, and she had a feeling that his intent focus on her was more an act of looking away from the harsh daggers of light from the bedside lamp than it was to let himself lust after her. He didn't smile as she stripped in full view, didn't look at her as anything more than another object in the room. He didn't…

He just didn't.

"This isn't like before, right?" she asked as she yanked on a t-shirt. Naked. She'd been practically naked and he hadn't even blinked. Hadn't made a lecherous comment. Hadn't… She felt almost invisible, and that was worrisome. Derek and his rampant sex drive were partners. Connected at the hip like conjoined twins. It just seemed odd. Odd to have the sex drive part suddenly missing. This missing sexed-up commentary made her nervous. Serious. This was serious. "Before like with your anxiety attacks?" she clarified when he didn't answer right away.

He shook his head slowly, with care, and his eyes shut in a glacial, prolonged blink. When he resettled his gaze on her, he stared, his expression flat. Not flat like before, not flat cold. Flat depressed. "No."

She sighed and sat down on the bed next to him. The mattress shifted with a moan as her weight sank into it. She'd had to ask. She didn't want to do this again. Not another misdiagnosis. She believed him. He wasn't… This wasn't the same as before. He didn't… There was nothing panicky about him right then. Just quiet. Quiet misery. But she'd almost been hoping. Because that would have been an easy solution. Anxiety. Sedatives riding to the rescue once again.

"Rat, dog, mouse. Remember that," she said as she leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He let her, but it was a passive thing, and his whole body wavered like a tree trunk in the wind as she let her weight fall against him. He didn't reciprocate at all. His hands lay limply against his thighs, and his body stayed tight and hunched. Hunched in discomfort. She kissed his neck and eased out of her grip to rub a palm down his back, soothing. His eyelids drooped subtly, and the tightness in his breathing loosened just a little.

"How bad is this headache on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst pain you've ever experienced, one being nominal?" she asked.

"Seven," he said. He breathed. "Maybe… Eight."

"What did you count as a ten, Derek?"

"My rib," he said. "When I broke it, collapsed my lung, and I couldn't breathe."

"Oh," she said, looking down at her lap. She still hated to think of him lying on the pavement somewhere for thirty minutes, helpless. But… Now wasn't the time for the past. The now was scary enough. "Are you having any other problems?"

"I can't…"

"Can't what?"

"It hurts. To think. It… hurts. I can't… Focus."

He lowered his head into his hands and heaved a sigh that sent his spine curling like a wave. She leaned up against him, rubbing his back, whispering at him. He was… This was bad.

"Is that why you haven't… done any planning?"

"I'm sorry, Mere," he replied, blinking fiercely as he released his face from his hands to look back at her. His eyes watered. And his whole frame just… crumpled, well, looked like an old stilt house ready to sag into oblivion with just one more kick to the foundation, at the very least. "I would… would have… I tried to read a book earlier, and I couldn't… I couldn't follow it."

She swallowed against the lump in her throat, the lump that came with the whole realization that she'd… She'd been pushing him to propose, to come up with something romantic and elaborate and memorable, and he couldn't. Even worse was that, now that she'd essentially spent most of dinner, the parts where she hadn't been howling at him about dying too soon for her tastes, explaining how desperately she wanted it, wanted him to propose, she wouldn't put him past it to try and put something together anyway, despite the discomfort.

"Shhh, it's okay," she said. "I didn't mean that as a needle. It's fine. I'm sorry I've been pushing you. I didn't know it was this bad. I thought you were feeling better."

He shrugged. "I'm sorry, anyway. It's the one thing you wanted."

He seemed so contrite. So contrite. And she'd been pushing him. She was starting to see how their conversation had gone so dreadfully wrong and dismal so quickly. And then her stomach felt like it was sinking into her feet. He couldn't think straight. He couldn't read a book. And she'd… His chorus of repeated I can'ts from dinner bit into her like knives.

_I can't…_

_If I let that happen, I'd never… I'd wilt. You can't… I can't..._

_I can't tell you I'm not going to die, Meredith._

_I'm here now. I can't…_

I can't. I can't. I can't. Derek Shepherd had a serious god complex. He didn't say those words lightly. Ever. And he'd practically littered the entire conversation with the papery, junky, trashy bits of them. Why hadn't she noticed sooner he'd been breaking? The Discussion. She'd thought she'd been sharing. She'd thought. And the whole time, she'd just been striking him with blow after blow in a savage confirmation of how helpless he really was, despite what he liked to think. She'd told him she was afraid. She'd told him she was afraid about something neither of them had any hope of fixing. And she'd…

Made it worse.

"Stop it, Derek," she said. "Stop apologizing. Just… What words did I say?"

He blinked. After a moment of pause, just long enough to send up phosphorous flares of fear behind her heart, he said in a quiet voice, "Rat, dog, mouse." No hesitation between the words. He hadn't struggled or wondered or misremembered.

The flares quieted. "Okay," she said. "Okay… I… Do you know what day it is?"

"Monday."

"What show were you watching when I came home today?"

"Jerry Springer, for a minute, anyway."

"Okay," she said. She slid off the bed and sat down in front of him. He looked down at her, his gaze hooded with discomfort. She gripped his knees and squeezed. "Okay, you seem… Derek… I… What should I do?"

He was the neurosurgeon. He was the one who should know. And she suddenly didn't want this to be up to her. He was coherent. He was able. He should have an opinion. He was…

He was the neurosurgeon.

She was just the wannabe.

"I think it's just… a headache, Mere," he replied. "I'll… I'm seeing Dr. Weller in the morning. I think… I'm okay to wait."

"You're sure? I'm serious, Derek," she said, and then she sucked in a breath. "Damn it, I'm sorry. Making a diagnosis on yourself probably qualifies as thinking hard, doesn't it?" she added glumly. She was being such a crappy, crappy talker that night. She just…

He shook his head, ignoring her comment, and with him in such a slowed state, she could almost picture the thoughts as they marched across his face in a stumbling, weary procession. "It just hurts, Mere. I get a little nauseated from time to time, but I'm not vomiting. I can see straight. I know how to spell my name. I'm… having this conversation with you. All of my symptoms are just… they match. With PCS… I think… I'm okay. It's only… Seven more hours. Until we have to leave. I'm okay."

Okay. She wanted to laugh. Okay. Okay in the worst sense of the word. Where okay just meant not imminently dying of anything. She raised her index finger to the space just in front of his eyes.

"Can you follow my finger?" she said. She began to move her hand back and forth. He followed it without trouble or deviation until she forced his gaze into jagged swords of lamplight. He shied away, rapidly blinking. But that wasn't… That was to be expected. His diagnosis seemed sound, despite his difficulties. "Okay," she said as she pulled her hand away. "But, at the very least, you're telling Dr. Weller you need a prescription for your pain. This is… I don't like this. You need something like codeine, or… Something."

"I will," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Derek, will you stop apologizing?"

"I'm… I want to propose. I'm…"

"It's okay," she tried to assure him. "I can wait for you. I didn't know. I didn't know before when I was pushing you that you were hurting. I just thought… I thought you were upset about the conversation."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop it, Derek," she snapped. "You can't help that you're sick. Head trauma sucks."

And then she winced. She had to stop telling him he couldn't do things. Had to stop. It was only going to make it worse, because he would take those as more than just helpful observations. Why was she being so dumb tonight?

"I didn't want…" He sighed. "To scare you…"

"Scare me? Derek…"

"About… The dying… About…"

His words died off into silence, and she bit her lip. The lying. He'd… She'd managed to spur him into lying. Dumb. She'd been dumb. Dumb to share right then. Her timing… Dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb. At least it explained, though. Explained his stoic refusal to admit something was wrong, at first.

His gaze narrowed, and after flipping the lamp off, he slowly tilted over onto his side and threw his legs up in a slow, fluid, coordinated collapse. Definitely no ataxia there. He curled up on his side, his knees pointed up in a half-fetal position, but not tight, not closed-off. She got up off the floor and crawled into bed next to him, spooning him. She lifted her fingers to run through his hair, soft, soothing in the darkness. A dim haze fell over the bed through the window from the streetlights, but it was barely noticeable.

"I never should have said anything," she said, woeful as she spoke into his skin. She loved his neck. And his back. And everything else about him. Except maybe the stubble, but that didn't count as a body part. Did it? Regardless, he was a good spoon in either direction. "Not then. Not right now. Not when all this other… stuff is going on. I'm okay. Derek… I'm… I'll always be a little scared. But that's life, right? People… die. It's… I love you. I'll deal. I'll make myself deal. I just… Sharing. I thought it would be good. I thought…"

He sighed. "You can tell me anything, Mere," he said, and she couldn't help but relax into the vibrations as the sound wandered through his back and lapped up against her cheek in a low rumble. He was warm. So warm. And she never ever wanted that to go away. Particularly not because of her own idiocy.

"Yeah, but my timing apparently sucks," she conceded. "I didn't mean to slam you with the biggest you-can't-fix-it in the universe. I wasn't thinking. It was… I just… You freaked me out a little with the Kirsten Dunst refusal thing. I'd never really thought about how different we are, sometimes. And suddenly, I was thinking… I'd never really considered the future, because the now is always drowning me." Her brain stuttered to a halt. Derek's breath caught, but he didn't say anything. She gave the silence about four ticks before she managed to continue, "Um. Okay, bad pun. Awful. Bad, punny... Bad. I'll just. Stop. Stopping now. Yeah. I'm so sorry. I can't seem to say anything right tonight. I suck."

He shuffled and flopped over on his other side so that he was facing her. His knees brushed up against her midsection as he semi-curled up again. He chuckled. Lightly. Quietly. Weakly. But it was a chuckle, and it made everything seem so much better. "I'd make a comment," he said, a sly grin pulling his lips into a slant, "But I just don't have the energy to follow through right now."

She grinned back. "What, you think I suck good?"

"Well," he corrected as he moved his hand to run along the curve of her hip. "You suck well."

"Want me to suck now?" she asked. She rubbed her palm against the flat of his stomach, roaming toward his navel, roaming lower. "Porn is proven pain relief, you know."

The cheer bled out of him like oil from the Exxon Valdez, his knees came up a little further, and she wanted to kick herself again. Just… Why. Why could she not talk? Why did she have to keep reminding him he was in such bad shape? Sure. Ask the guy who's crumpled up in pain if he wants to have sex, and, even better, make it all about servicing him, instead of the other way around. Way to make him feel enabled. Yeah. Wonderful.

"It's okay," she said quickly. "It's fine. I was… We don't have to."

He sighed. "I started it. I'm sorry."

She reached up and put her palm against his cheek. "Stop. Apologizing. Okay? Didn't we decide last week that we both guilt things up too much?"

"You're one to talk," he countered.

"Both," she said, grinning. "I said we both."

"Technicality. You were scolding me, not you."

"Fine," she said. "But I'm not the one who's miserable, so I must be right."

He smiled lazily. "Able to leap… amazing heaps of logic in a single bound…"

"My next feat will involve trains."

"In spandex?"

"Do they make spandex for trains?"

He laughed at her deliberate misinterpretation. "I meant for you."

"For you, I'd do it naked," she said.

"Good to know," he replied. He sighed and lay quiet, breathing, breathing for a moment. She curled her fingers through his hair, and his body slackened out of the tense place it'd been wired in. She scooted in closer, worming her way between his knees until he got the message and flattened out against her. What was this? Not spooned. Forked? Whatever. His eyes shut, and his head slowly tilted into the pillow.

For a moment, she thought he'd fallen asleep. For a moment.

Until he shifted and his lips found hers. He kissed her. Gentle. Just a passing touch. His nose brushed hers. His forehead rested against her. "Thank you for maybe kids, Mere," he whispered into her mouth.

You're welcome didn't seem like much of a response to that. She smiled, ran a finger down the side of his face and a palm back through his hair. His eyes slipped shut again. His calm, quiet breathing laved her skin, and in that moment, despite the whorl and wind of turmoil looming, everything felt perfect.

"The sharing thing goes both ways, Derek," she whispered. "You know you can say anything, right? I'm not going to break. And I'm not going to run away anymore. Ever."

He opened his eyes and stared at her. The dim streetlights reflected off his irises and pupils in a soft glow of foreboding. For a brief moment, faster than the flicker of a lightning strike, she saw it in his gaze. I'm frightened. His breaths stayed even, and the fear slipped back behind a solid wall of pain.

She didn't blame him. For not sharing. For not talking. She curled her fingers through his hair, and, instead, she kissed him back.


	36. Chapter 34

**Author's Notes: The following part was a veritable playground of character analysis for me. This is why I wanted to do this. Not because it's dramatic or flashy or because I get my kicks out of making characters suffer, but it lets me pick things apart, figure out what makes them work, and go for the jugular when I explain my ideas to everyone else. My original goal with this story was to reboot McDreamy and open up his back story and motivations with a can opener. That's what I'm doing. The reboot, I consider successfully completed. But this is where I truly hit pay dirt on the can opener front, I think. I hope you like it, but if you don't, my eyes are always looking for suggestions :) Or course, any and all feedback is relished.**

**You might recognize some of the dialog at the start of this. Credit goes to Grey's writers, at least for Mark's side of things. This was the first time I've actually borrowed so much of the show at once, so I figured I'd mention it.**

* * *

Seattle Grace was busy. Derek sat in the waiting area wedged as far in the corner as he could manage, his head propped up on his palm, his elbow resting on the little side table. His legs splayed, he sat in a wilted, slumped, defeated slouch. He hadn't been looking forward to coming in for his appointment, hadn't been looking forward to dealing with the stares and the questions. He hadn't been looking forward to contributing to the newest broadcast on the gossip network. McDreamy is McSick, McWitless, and McDoped. 

McYuck.

He hadn't slept well the night before. Every time he'd fallen into a doze, the throbbing pain had yanked him back out of slumber and into the reality. The reality of time. Time passing in a funeral procession of moments, slow, somber, unrushed. And he'd lain there. Staring at the ceiling until his eyes had drooped shut and the whole cycle had started again, over, and over, and over in the nastiest use of instant replay ever.

When Meredith had woken up for her shift, it'd seemed like eons since she'd gone to sleep. He'd tried to be functional. He'd tried to get up and get ready, take a shower, shave, brush his teeth. He'd tried. Slow. Hurting. He'd felt like some sort of lumbering glacier of suffering. Coordinated acts of grooming had all strung into a long session of self-torture, but he'd managed. Sort of. He'd nicked himself with his razor. Twice. He'd gotten his dental floss caught at least four times. By the time he'd stumbled downstairs to the foyer, dressed haphazardly in an old t-shirt and jeans that Meredith had blessedly pulled out for him, saving him some effort on the coherency front, he'd felt like any sort of thought, particularly any thought that was expected to connect up with the one that had occurred before it, was impossible. Meredith had asked him questions, pelting, rapid, worried. He'd answered as best as he possibly could, but every word he'd had to formulate had been yet another form of torture. Meredith had gotten the idea, and had driven him in silence to the hospital.

That had been about four and a half hours before. Dr. Weller had been at the hospital overnight, and had been able to see Derek within about thirty minutes of his arrival. Dr. Weller had taken one look at Derek and given him some better pain medication to help in the interim while he made a more complete diagnosis. Tylenol with codeine. It'd kicked in after a few minutes, and the pain, the whole mountain of it, had receded in a sluggish, oozing wave, leaving just a little murmuring ache and a metric ton of exhaustion in its wake. The rest of the physical examination had passed sluggishly while Derek had struggled to stay awake and answer Dr. Weller's questions about his symptoms. And, as if that hadn't been grueling enough on his torn and frazzled nerves, Derek had had to get scans done after that. Even that early, the line for the MRI machine had already been backed up. It'd been a long, tiring wait. He'd actually fallen asleep during his MRI despite the hum and the clicks and the closed space and the clinical impersonality of it all. The technician had had to wake him up when it'd been over. Derek had shuffled back down to the waiting area, and there he sat, waiting for Dr. Weller's analysis of the films. And who knew how long that could take? Dr. Weller had been called away to deal with an emergency with one of his post-op patients.

His eyes slipped shut. His head started tilting. He snapped awake, blinking, unhappy, unhappy to be there. He just wanted to go home, curl up in the dark under sheets that smelled like Meredith, and sleep. Really sleep. Finally. Tylenol with codeine had sedative effects. He was tired anyway. It was a horrible combination. He wanted Dr. Weller to finish looking at everything and send him on his way. He'd take a taxi back home or something. Meredith had offered to drive him back during her lunch break, but he didn't think he could wait that long.

At least nobody had noticed him sitting there, looking pale and pasty and tired and unwell. Nobody had come to talk with him or offer pleasantries. Derek Shepherd the high-powered neurosurgeon wasn't really a holey-jeaned, t-shirted, pile of sickly, exhausted unwellness kind of guy. Out of the corners of peoples' eyes, he probably blended in as just another ill and weary patient, especially as slouched as he was, especially since he held his head routinely cradled in his hands while he stared at the weave of the carpet at his feet, stared until it blurred into a murky, peach-colored blot of color and nothing else. He went unnoticed. Unseen. And that suited him just fine. He felt…

Unwell.

The pain was a bare memory, etched into the blur of the morning leading up to the first pill Dr. Weller had given him, but he felt like he was just waking up from a bad bout of flu, sickness still wafting out of all his pores. Seattle Grace was busy. Noises shrieked and clicked and laughed and beeped and rang and shuffled and groaned all around him in a hailstorm of sound. They didn't worsen the remnant ache he felt, but the desire for quiet and dark held him in its thrall, and the cacophony was enough to send his index finger rubbing along his brow in irritation. The waiting room was bright. And that did hurt, but it was a dull, distant hum that he could deal with. He could. Easily. He let it throb without comment. He thought about wandering off to an on-call room or maybe even to his office, but if he let himself amble into the areas of the hospital highly trafficked by doctors, he was pretty sure he'd have to field questions or friendly get wells. And walking… Walking upstairs and finding an empty room… Effort.

Meredith had been checking in every forty-five minutes or so when she could spare a few seconds. She'd been ecstatic to find him relatively pain free, had kissed him, hugged him, babbled lightly about how busy the day was going to be, and he'd let himself fall, relaxed, into the comforting cadence of her excited voice. The operating rooms were booked solid, she'd said, which had made sense of the early activity in the MRI rooms. Something about a bad pileup on the freeway involving a semi. Meredith had said she was going to scrub in for a liver transplant later that day, but that she hadn't been assigned to anything that morning.

He'd suspected that she had been lying. That she'd stayed out of morning surgeries to be more available for him. But he hadn't said anything. He hadn't been able to. Selfishly, he'd liked that she'd kept showing up to keep him company. Her voice was a balm. Her scent. Her warmth. Everything. In the moments she was there, he didn't feel sick, didn't feel like he couldn't. And that was better than any pain reliever or sedative.

She saved him from the moments like this one, where all he could think about was sleeping. He would have to talk to Chief Webber later about taking the rest of the week off. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, but hovering in the lazy fuzz of tiredness did have one advantage. Worrying was just too much effort, so, he wasn't really thinking much about taking leave at all. He was thinking about beds. And being in them. And not being awake. Dreaming.

His sighed, and his head started to tilt again.

Cross trainers that weren't his own stepped into his limited field of view of peach, ugly carpet. A presence hovered on the edge of his personal bubble for a procession of tense, weary moments. A sigh stuttered into the silence above him. The chair next to him rocked as Mark sat down next to him and he thumped his bag down in a heap.

"What are you doing here?" Mark said. "I thought you were on sick leave."

Derek managed a flat, "Sitting here," through clenched teeth. He brought up his gaze, blinking at the harsh light. Mark was still in his street clothes, stonewashed blue jeans and a black button up shirt that peeked out from underneath his leather coat. He'd dropped his heavy, bulging briefcase into the chair on his other side. The side flap of the bag had his beeper and all of his phones clipped to it. Derek prayed that one of them, any of them, would ring. That would be nice.

"You look like shit, man," Mark said. He slouched forward and brushed his palms over his face in a tired gesture.

"Thanks, Mark. Thanks for the astute observation," Derek snapped. "I'm just waiting."

"Meredith getting off shift soon?" Mark said.

Derek sighed and didn't comment. Mark didn't need to know. Mark didn't need to know about the PCS. Mark didn't need to know that Derek was on pain medication and ready to collapse. Mark didn't need to be next to him in this chair, but Derek was too tired to get up and walk away, and so he sat, quiet, grinding his molars. The ache that had been just an annoyance sharpened its claws. He didn't need this right now. He didn't need this ever.

And yet… "Meredith told me you wanted to talk," Derek said, and for the briefest of moments, behind all the muck and mire of the creeping tiredness, a sliver of hope pierced the space behind his heart. Maybe this would be the time. Maybe this would be the time Mark would finally get it. Or maybe this would be the time Mark would finally go away for good. Every time he talked to Mark, this happened. This stupid, twisting dream that the tangle with Mark would finally fix itself. Finally resolve. Like a disease. Gone. Healed. Exorcised.

Every time he talked with Mark, this happened. And every time he talked with Mark, Derek came out of the conversation feeling just a little bit like he'd relapsed into the night he'd found his former best friend in his bed. Fucking his wife.

Mark was an addictive poison.

One day, maybe Derek would learn.

"She's gone, Derek," Mark replied without precursor.

Derek blinked. Meredith? "Who's gone?" he said.

Mark didn't answer. "What's in LA?"

"What?"

"For Addison. Any idea what she might be doing there? The Chief told me yesterday that's where she went. She just… up and left. Sunday, she was here. Monday, she was gone."

"No," Derek said. Disappointment tripped on his anger, and they fell into a jumbled heap of bitter, dark churning. He drew his fingers up to the bridge of his nose and started massaging himself. This wouldn't be. This wouldn't be the time. And he really wanted to sleep. He couldn't even bring himself to be surprised that Addison had skipped town. Couldn't bring himself to wonder. He just didn't care about her anymore. They were on terms that weren't hateful. But he expected that was as far as he could ever recover from that. First the one night stand. Then discovering it had been a whole lot more. A whole. Lot. More. It had disgusted Derek when the whole thing had been an impulsive mistake. It had horrified him when he'd discovered it had been a calculated, continuous error over several months.

"We were gonna try," Mark said, oblivious. Fucking oblivious like he always was. "We were gonna make a go of it. As a couple. She bet me I couldn't go sixty days without having sex."

Derek sighed. He didn't want to hear this. "Leave me alone, Mark."

"She didn't want to be with me," Mark said. "I thought she did. I thought she might. But she didn't. And I caught her. You know…"

"Leave me **alone**, Mark," Derek hissed. At least Addison being Addison, desperate for validation from a man, had maybe ripped a hole in Mark as wide as the hole Mark had ripped in Derek when Derek had caught them. Vengeful. He was being vengeful.

But he just didn't care anymore. Because Mark was pestering, and Derek was tired.

"I told her I did it," Mark continued, ignoring him like always. Ignoring. Mark was bigger. Mark had always been bigger.

_But I don't want to TP that house. It's wrong. What if we get caught?_

A fist had slammed into his side, roughhousing, playful, but hard. Hard enough to make him wheeze. Mark had always been bigger.

_You're such a pansy, Derek. Live a little._

And Derek had found himself doing it anyway, serving as lookout while Mark leapt around, throwing roll after roll of fluffy pink toilet paper into the tree in front of some poor victim's house, one of the very few trees. Derek had tried to ignore the pit of sickness twisting inside his stomach. Against the rules, against the rules, against the rules. Tried to ignore, at the same time, the little zing of thrill. Breaking the rules, breaking the rules, breaking the rules.

_See, you big baby. It's fun._

"I told her I lost the bet," Mark continued. "I told her I slept with someone. I figured if she didn't want to be with me, she shouldn't have to feel guilty about it."

"I don't want to hear about your fucked up problems with my ex-wife," Derek snarled. "Who you fucked, Mark. You f-- Leave me alone."

"I love her, Derek," Mark whispered.

Derek squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to ever hear this. He just wanted it to go away. He leaned down onto his knees with his elbows and covered his mouth. Just thinking about it made him want to vomit. Mark. Addison. Mark spilling himself into the woman who had been Derek's for eleven years. Mark had taken everything away from him.

"My point," Mark continued. "Look, it was never about you. It was never… It was never meant to… You can't help who you love, Derek."

And, once again, Mark was passing blame. Bile rose, but Derek swallowed against the burn and breathed. He breathed. He breathed. When he rose back up into a full sitting position, he peered at Mark through dark, angry eyes. Why didn't Mark ever. Fucking. Get it?

"I don't care," Derek said. "She was my wife, Mark. I've known you since I was five. It should have been about me."

He sighed and ran tired, clenching fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to just lean forward and… sleep. He blinked tiredly, and every time he opened his eyes again it was harder. Harder. He should have hidden in his office, where Mark would have been very unlikely to accidentally run across him, because, while Mark was a relentless, nosy prick who never seemed to give up on the idea of reconciling despite the heinous betrayal, he seemed to understand that the office was off limits except for professional reasons, that Derek needed a place where Mark was guaranteed not to be. He should have hidden there, locked the door, told Dr. Weller to page him whenever he was ready to finish up. Derek would have been easier for Meredith to find, too. And maybe she would have come around more than every forty-five minutes if she'd known exactly where he had been the whole morning while he waited. Maybe.

"I just wanted," Mark continued, his voice falling away in a bout of uncharacteristic speechlessness. Mark always knew what he wanted to say. Split second. Bam. He said what he thought. Like an idea, if it was hurled with enough abruptness, was a fist he could use to hit things with. "Look, what I wanted to talk about…" Bam. "Did you have to take away my family, too?" There it was.

Except, usually, Mark's barbs made more sense than that.

Derek sighed. "What are you talking about, now?"

He was too tired. Too tired to follow Mark's leaps of bullshit. Derek pondered getting up and leaving. He pondered it. Effort. Walk and suffer getting away, or sit and suffer staying there. A conundrum.

"The reunion," Mark clarified. "How was it?"

"Fine."

"Are you happy? Have you gotten your revenge in?"

"What are you fucking talking about?" Derek snapped.

"Oh, come off it, Derek," Mark replied. "You emotionally blackmailed them. You traipsed off with Meredith to your happy little barbecue after skipping **both** Thanksgiving and Christmas. I was there. I was there at Thanksgiving. And Christmas. I was there, and you weren't. And yet the reunion comes around and I don't even get a fucking phone call? Funny how that works out. Don't you think?"

Derek blinked. He hadn't really considered why Mark hadn't been at the reunion. He hadn't really thought about it beyond the relief of knowing he wasn't coming. His mother had simply said not to worry about it. Relieved. He'd been relieved. But he'd certainly had nothing to do with it. Nothing.

"You think I…"

"Yeah, Derek. I do."

"I had nothing to do with the guest list," Derek said. "Mom called me and threatened to come out here instead if I didn't go. She wanted to meet Meredith, who, thanks to Nancy, Mom originally thought would be a slutty, gold-digging bar whore."

Mark had the decency to look rebuffed. He frowned, ran his hands down his face in a slow trail as he sighed. "Oh."

"Please, Mark," Derek said. "Please, go away."

He didn't even care that he was begging. He just wanted to be left alone.

"No," Mark said. "I want to know. I want to know how you can fall so desperately in love with Meredith that you cheat on Addison with her, and yet you can't bring yourself to understand what happened with Addison and me."

"Leave me alone," Derek said, his tone harsh and grating. The words fell from his lips like gunfire, but Mark, stupid, stubborn Mark, wouldn't comply, and Derek suspected, at this point, if he moved, Mark would follow him around like a yapping dog. Now, now, now. I want the answers now.

"I'm not moving, man. I'm tired of letting your passive aggressive bullshit ruin my life. I want to know."

Derek sighed and slouched back in his chair. The little murmur of ache from before escalated just a little into a whine. Like a mosquito. Whining. Still nominal, but harder to ignore in the long term. Eventually, the urge to swat would suck him down into frustration. He hoped Dr. Weller would come back soon. He needed either another dose of the Tylenol, or he needed a prescription to fill. Something. He never wanted to go back to where he'd been that morning.

It was getting into late morning, and activity had built over the slow crawl of hours. The doors to the hospital seemed to always be greeting or saying farewell to a crowd. Noise. Everywhere. An old lady hobbled in on a walker, moving at a pace that would very likely compete with a snail. Barely. The walker creaked and clinked as she moved. Rickety. A young teen hopped out the door by an older woman's side. Her mother? Perhaps. It didn't matter. Bounce, bounce, bounce on the floor. Her feet slammed against the welcome mat with hollow thumps. Noise. Everywhere.

He leaned forward, clutched the bridge of his nose, and breathed into his palm.

Soon. This would be over soon. Dr. Weller just needed a spare minute to finish up his diagnosis.

"I want to know, Derek," Mark prodded, and Derek had to force himself to focus. Know? Know what?

He sluggishly rewound the conversation and found his answer. Why had screwing Meredith at the prom been all right? Except, it hadn't been. It hadn't been all right. He'd cheated. He'd broken them.

The rules.

He'd been that person.

He knew why he'd done it. But that would never make it okay, despite Meredith's reassurances to the contrary. It would never be okay.

And that was where he and Mark differed. That was where they would always differ. Until Mark finally realized, until he got a fucking clue, until he finally got it.

"I didn't love Addison anymore," Derek said.

"So?" Mark said, his voice stuffed full of incredulous surprise. "That gave you the right to cheat?"

Derek shrugged. "No."

"No?" Mark said. He spluttered, actually floundered on some empty syllables that may have been words if he hadn't been so obviously confused, as if he'd expected to have to force Derek to expound on justification, not denial. "But…"

He was confused because he didn't get it. Derek didn't think he ever would.

"Leave me alone," Derek said. "Leave me the fuck alone, Mark."

"What do you mean, no?" Mark asked, ignoring him.

"I mean no," Derek snapped. He rubbed his eyes with his index fingers. "I mean, no, I should never have slept with Meredith at that stupid dance. I treated Addison like shit, I hate that I didn't care at the time, and I made what should have been something beautiful into something cheap and tawdry. Is that what you wanted to hear? Go away, Mark."

"No," Mark said, his voice snappy and irritated. "I don't understand. I thought…"

"There is nothing. Similar. About what you and I did."

"Why?"

"Because I fucking learned something, Mark." Derek sighed. "I learned that I am the luckiest person in the world, because I behaved like a fucking bastard, and Meredith took me back, anyway. And, because, at the time, I didn't love Addison anymore, but, when you fucked my wife, I'm fairly certain we were still brothers, unless I missed the fucking memo."

Mark shook his head minutely, flummoxed, stunned. "I don't…"

"My point. Go away. Go away, now."

"Please, Derek…" Mark said, his voice harsh, confused, hurting. He really didn't get it.

A tall, brown-haired man cleared his throat about three feet from them. Derek hadn't even seen him walk up, but when he turned to find Dr. Weller standing there, he didn't care. Didn't care that he'd been so out of it, so oblivious, so stressed he hadn't even noticed. He didn't care that he hadn't felt his colleague's approach. Relief flooded Derek. Home. He would finally be able to go home. And he would get a replacement dose for the painkiller that was starting to wear off. Relief. Overwhelming, unadulterated relief that had him sighing, blinking, almost elated, until he stopped feeling relieved long enough to read the expression on Dr. Weller's face.

"Dr. Shepherd," Dr. Weller said. Between his spindly fingers, he clasped a large, flat manila envelope. A black strip poked out the open end of the envelope, and the little red string that would tie the envelope closed dangled against Dr. Weller's white lab coat. Films. They were films. And Dr. Weller looked… Apologetic and worried. It was the type of face that said I'm sorry, but you have cancer. I'm sorry, but you have six months to live. I'm sorry, but we need to take the leg. I'm sorry, but… It was a purely doctor sort of face, and the expression contained nothing of his colleague, a man who, if things kept progressing at their current pace, might become a friend. Eventually. Dr. Weller's brown eyes were wide and unblinking, as if he were afraid to look away. Some people, when they had bad news, couldn't do anything **but** look away. Others couldn't stop staring. Dr. Weller seemed to be a constituent of the latter group. Everything about his posture said tense. Tense and concerned.

"Dr. Weller," Derek replied, unwilling to let the stab of worry knock him down. He clenched the arms of his chair, and his heartbeat thumped in his chest, thumped like it was going to suck everything down into the floor with it. Sinking. He felt.

Sinking.

"We should move into a conference room," Dr. Weller said. His gaze briefly moved to Mark before flicking back to Derek with a fluttery prey versus predator skittishness. "I finally had a chance to look at your MRI results, and I'd like to discuss them with you."

Derek recognized Dr. Weller's tactic immediately. Mark was an unknown quantity. This was where Derek was supposed to say anything you need to tell me, he can hear. If Mark was family or a loved one or both. Which he wasn't. Not anymore. Not ever again. This was also the opportunity for Derek to say this man has no business knowing about my medical problems. He chose the latter option.

"Okay," Derek said. Dr. Weller nodded and turned. Derek shoved himself into a standing position. He blinked as the room fuzzed up and went dark for blood-rushing, sinking second. Tiredness. Just tiredness. And probably the codeine. Tangoing in his head, dulling him down. The room came back in seconds.

Mark stared at him. His lips parted. He'd obviously caught that little stumbling episode.

"Wait," Mark said, as if he were finally, finally clued in to why Derek would be sitting in the hospital, looking like crap, waiting in the waiting room of all the places he had access to, like his office, the attendings' lounge, the on-call rooms, the break rooms. "Wait, you're a patient?"

Derek paused and turned. "Go. Away."

"What's wrong with you?" Mark said, his tone devolving into uncharacteristic, biting worry. The pace of Mark's speech picked up, and he animatedly followed Derek as he slogged after Dr. Weller toward the nearest conference room. "Meredith said you were fine. You're fine. Right, man?"

Derek didn't answer him. Go away, he thought silently. Go away, and leave me alone. Finally, finally, leave me alone. Except Mark kept badgering until Derek wound up having to shut the door to the conference room in his face to get away from him.

Dr. Weller sat down at the head of the conference table. Derek couldn't help but look back over his shoulder. Mark paced back and forth outside, visible through the conference room's side panel glass windows. Dr. Weller looked up and followed the line of Derek's gaze to Mark. He cleared his throat, stood, and went over to lower the blinds on the windows before coming to sit back down again. Silence hummed in the room, thick, tangible.

Dr. Weller sat, his hands clasped, licking his lips, as if he were trying to figure out how best to let his boss know he was dying of some sort of terrible plague, but all it did was make Derek start to shiver with worry. "So?" Derek prodded, conscious of his stiffening muscles. He tried to relax, tried to let them loosen up, but they just kept winding back up like a spring release getting ready to go.

"Dr. Shepherd," Dr. Weller said, "You've developed what looks like a wide area subacute subdural hematoma."

"Let me see," Derek replied.

Dr. Weller sighed, his fingers sliding along the edges of the envelope. "Dr. Shepherd…"

"Let me see," Derek said, snatching the films from Dr. Weller as soon as they cleared the edge of the envelope. He raised the first one to the light, squinting, blinking. His name was sprawled at the bottom of the films in loopy handwriting. Derek Shepherd. His head. His brain. For a slow, terrifying moment, he felt like he had felt when he'd first woken up the week before. Muddled. Slow. Fragmented. Unable to think in the higher terms required to be a neurosurgeon. He was staring at something that may as well have been an illustrative guide to the Cyrillic alphabet in Swahili. But as he blinked, as he adjusted to the light, as he forced himself to breathe and really look at what he was seeing, it all started to make a certain amount of sense. "This is…"

"Clotting," Dr. Weller said. "You have a large amount of clotting. Which means—"

"Craniotomy," Derek said, quick, a habit, though he wasn't sure why anymore. He tried to think about it as he lowered the films back down onto the table. They slid an inch on a thin pocket of air before settling in the middle. He ached. But without the throbbing block of pain in his skull, thinking wasn't nearly as difficult. Even so, he still felt… scattered. Like… to make a coherent analysis of his situation, he had to draw in thoughts and ideas and conclusions from all directions and distances, north, south, east, west, up, down, near, far, and it was exhausting. Exhausted. He already was. He closed his eyes for a moment and let everything hum and assemble at its lumbering, frustrating, glacial pace. Craniotomy. Not… burr holes. Burr holes were only useful if the blood stuck inside his head still had the ability to flow and spurt to escape from the pressure. Clotting meant… What did? Clotting meant everything was stuck. And craniotomy meant…

Dr. Weller said, "Yes." Somewhere beyond the roar.

"But…" Derek said. His voice stopped. It just… stopped. And the thoughts he'd had dissolved, only to be replaced by a bitter, winding, silent fear.

Craniotomy meant he'd be naked and under anesthesia for hours with his skull cracked open for all his snarky, gossipy interns to see. All his staff. He'd be naked, and helpless, and when he woke up, he'd be drugged and unable to move more than a few inches on his own for a while. A day, at least. It meant he'd feel fatigued and weak and nearly helpless for another week or more after that. And he'd feel sick and down for another six to eight weeks after that while he would be routinely rebuffed for any physical activities with aching tiredness. All the time. And that was the optimistic outlook. The pessimistic outlook was that he could develop epilepsy and be forced to resign. People prone to having seizures weren't really the best surgeons, what with the possibility of a complete neurological misfire of electrical charges able to send them careening to the floor, twitching, incontinent, and helpless at any time. He had problems thinking now, but at least there was the hope that it'd spontaneously resolve overnight. A craniotomy could potentially interfere with his thought processes for weeks. More than weeks. Months. Even permanently if something got botched. There was the possibility of post-operatic pneumonia and or complications that would require yet another craniotomy, either of which would keep him in the hospital even longer. He'd…

No.

"Dr. Shepherd," Dr. Weller said, and then his voice lowered into something more considerate. Something more friendly. "Derek. We need to admit you. Immediately. You need to be put on diuretics to keep swelling down and anti-convulsants so you don't start to seize. And I need to operate. Before permanent damage occurs."

"But it could… heal," Derek said. Sometimes these things healed. "On its own. It's been ten days. It's been… It's a slow bleed. It could just…"

Heal.

He remembered. He remembered the squeal of the ambulance as it had approached. He remembered getting picked up and dropped by half a dozen hands onto a gurney like a sack of meat. He remembered watching the fluorescent lights pass by overhead as he stared up at the ceiling, and they rolled the gurney into the trauma ward. He remembered trying to breathe, remembered the way every inhalation had been a sharp knife, slipping under his ribs. Except every breath he'd taken hadn't been nearly enough, and he'd just had to take more, and more, and more, until he'd been gasping and struggling and trying so hard. He'd been nauseated. And confused. But he'd been awake, and they'd just…

No.

He hadn't been Derek. He'd been that guy with the pneumothorax and a concussion.

No.

"You know that's very unlikely."

"No."

"No?"

"I don't want to…"

Be that guy with the bleeding brain. No.

"Derek," Dr. Weller said as he stood and pulled his chair around the corner of the table and scooted closer. "I know this has to be a little surreal for you. But if we get to this quickly, you have an excellent chance at a full recovery. All of your current symptoms can be attributed to hematoma. I'm willing to bet you never had PCS, or, if you do, it's not nearly as bad as what you're currently experiencing."

Reasonable. Dr. Weller sounded so incredibly reasonable. Don't worry. Everything's fine. Congratulations, no PCS. It's just a huge clot of blood wreaking havoc. Nothing big. Gone with the flick of a scalpel and a drill.

A drill.

To his head.

"My last MRI didn't show any bleeding at all. I checked it myself," Derek said. He'd checked it himself because he hadn't trusted Dr. Zalkind. After his MRI had been finished and Dr. Zalkind had been flashing the gift of Xanax at him, he'd checked it, forced himself to check it despite the sucking pull of panic. Dr. Zalkind had put it up against a backlight for him in one of the hallways, and he'd stared at it. Curled up on the stretcher, shaking, blinking, he'd stared at it, until another roll of nausea had pulled his gaze away, and he'd finally given in. Given into Dr. Zalkind's suggestion of sedation. There hadn't been any bleeding on that scan. There hadn't been. He looked down at the new scans, resting on the table, cool, and dark, and barely visible under the spread of his fingers. "It's a slow bleed," he added uselessly.

Dr. Weller nodded. "Yes," he said. "It may have taken a long time to start showing up on scans." He smelled like antiseptic. And right that moment, Derek wanted to retch.

"It's PCS," Derek said, pushing the films away. It was PCS, and that scan was a mistake. Something had… messed up the imaging software. His name had gotten switched with some poor fool who'd been driving drunk after a binge at a bar, not driving sober to take his girlfriend to meet his mother, only to be felled by a cruel fluke. He didn't need a craniotomy. He'd heal. He'd take the PCS back. He shouldn't have complained about the headaches and the nausea and all the rest. He was fine. He could deal with them. He could visit a psychiatrist and get a prescription for something that would help lessen the anxiety. Effexor, maybe. Or… Or… What did Kathy use for depressed, suicidal maniacs? What… And… The pain. He could live with that. "I agreed. PCS. I don't misdiagnose people."

He could live with PCS. He could. He hadn't meant to let it drag him down.

"Derek, based on the faxes of your medical records Sharon Hospital sent me, I would have agreed," Dr. Weller said. "Your reasoning was flawless for the data that you had, and, certainly, the doctors at Sharon did their best. But there've been new developments since then. As you said, this is a slow bleed. The last time you had an MRI was only four days after the accident. But this new MRI shows a massive amount of clotting. Deficits in your ability to concentrate have become debilitating. Your headaches have escalated."

"But Meredith," Derek said. "Last night, I told her it was PCS. It's all still consistent with..."

What was he going to say to Meredith? She'd just told him one of her deepest fears was of him dying before she did. He hadn't even wanted to admit he had a headache at first. She didn't need to be scared. She didn't deserve to be scared. He couldn't make himself younger, but he liked to think he could at least not scare her any more than the seven and a half extra years loitering in his bones already did on their own. She… She was going to marry him. But this? This was…

This was ridiculous, and unreal, and…

Not him on those scans. Because he was fine, and he could heal. He'd make himself fix it. He was healthy.

"Your cognitive abilities have been affected," Dr. Weller said, blunt and sharp all at once. "This is why doctors don't doctor themselves. And Dr. Grey, as skilled as she may be, is an intern who probably hasn't had enough experience yet to know better. She's also your girlfriend. Loved ones tend to make very subjective judgments."

"But I said it was PCS and that I was okay. I am okay. I'm fine."

Dr. Weller sighed. "Derek, give me a list of potential symptoms resultant from a subacute subdural hematoma."

"Headaches," Derek replied, instant, knowing, definitive. He knew the potential symptoms of a subdural hematoma. It was textbook. He performed at least one or two craniotomies or some sort of emergency decompressive surgery a week, particularly during the holidays when people got drunk and stupid. He'd seen enough bleeding brains to know what havoc they wreaked on a human body. Headaches. They caused… headaches.

"Yes," Dr. Weller said. "What else?"

"Nausea," Derek continued, but that one was harder. Harder to say. And the next few symptoms came to him even more slowly, like tired horses, moping across the finish line in last place at the end of a race. "Vomiting. Ataxia. Seizures."

"Yes, and?" Dr. Weller prodded.

"And…" Derek paused. "Dis… Disorientation."

"And?"

Derek blinked. There was more. There had to be more. He knew there was more. Tons more. What was? Deviated. Deviated something… Slurred. What? Slurred what. "I…"

"Derek, you can't think straight," Dr. Weller said, his voice low and friendly and soothing and calm, like he was talking to some sort of wild, frenzied animal, like he was trying not to get his hand snapped off in said wild, frenzied animal's jaws.

"I can think fine," Derek said. "It's just..." Slow. It would come to him. Deviated gaze. That was it. Slurred speech, deviated gaze. He didn't have either of those. He just had headaches. And nausea. And anxiety. And light sensitivity. And… memory problems.

"You're struggling with something you should be able to rattle off in five seconds by rote," Dr. Weller said. "You need to get this done, or you'll most likely suffer permanent brain damage and or death. I don't know what else to say to convince you."

Derek leaned onto his elbows and tore his fingers through his hair as he sighed. He wasn't… He could be fine. He could be. Sometimes, bleeds resolved on their own. "I need to… Talk to Meredith first."

"Okay," Dr. Weller replied, frowning. "You have my pager number, of course."

"Yeah," Derek nodded. Go away. Go away. Go away.

Dr. Weller sighed and left, but not without adding in his honeyed, rich, deep baritone, "Dr. Shepherd, you need to make this decision as soon as possible."

Not five short breaths after Dr. Weller had disappeared and left the door slightly open, Mark slammed through it and barreled into the room like a linebacker. The door banged back against the doorstop and shuddered to a halt midway through its return swing. "Derek, what is going on?" Mark asked, his tone pinched and worried. "What's wrong with you?"

Derek sighed. "What are you still doing here?"

"Let me see those," Mark snapped, gesturing to the films on the table.

"No," Derek replied. Mark grunted. And then Derek found his chair being yanked back on the wheels. He flailed, trying to keep his balance, trying to keep from falling onto his ass on the floor in a heap. The world went topsy-turvy at the sudden movement, the room fuzzed up, and Derek found himself more interested in making sure he didn't throw up than stopping Mark from looking. He swallowed, once, twice, squeezed his eyes shut, and covered his mouth with his palm while he struggled. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine. He could…

When he was able to breathe and focus again, he saw Mark holding his films up to the light.

"Stop it," Derek said, his voice hoarse and weak. "Those are mine." He pushed himself off the chair and stood up. Again, the sudden movement wrecked him for a moment. Fine, fine, fine. It would heal. He could heal. It was just the painkillers.

Mark turned to stare at him, lowering the films from the light. "Derek, this is bad. This is…"

"Leave me the fuck alone, Mark," Derek snapped. He made a grab for the films, but Mark stepped back an effortless dodge that left Derek flailing. A hot, red flush of embarrassment burned across his skin, and Derek panted, leaning on the table as he caught himself from falling on his face. Mark marched over to the backlight by the light switch, clipped the first film up against it, and flipped the switch. The backlight buzzed and snapped and flickered on, and there hung pictures of Derek's insides, up on the fucking wall for anyone to see, were they to walk into the conference room to look.

"Derek," Mark said, beginning reasonably enough, but then he started snarling. He slammed a hand against the wall next to the backlight and everything shook. The thin wall shook. It was one of those metal, temporary walls meant to make it easier for modular modifications to the facility. "This is your fucking brain. You see this? It's getting squished. I will not leave you the fuck alone. You're on your way to becoming a carrot, man. Meredith said you only had a concussion."

"Meredith has a big fucking mouth," Derek snapped. He moved to the backlight and flipped the switch off. His films went solid black, and he couldn't see the damage anymore. "I left Manhattan to escape. But you're like a fucking poison. I can't get away from you. At least if I get brain damage I might stop remembering you fucking my fucking wife in my fucking marital bed. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. And I don't want to hear anything about my fiancé coming from your lips ever again unless it's about a fucking awesome surgery she did. Go away."

He was roaring by the time he was exiting his rant. Roaring, spitting. Fuzziness came and went, but he ignored it. It didn't matter. Mark was a huge target, impossible to miss, even if Derek were blind. He shoved Mark. Actually shoved him. Shoved him back against the wall with all the force he could manage. The wall shook. Mark grunted. The breath knocked funnily in his chest. He winced as his back connected with the hard surface behind him. It'd hurt. Derek knew he'd hurt him. Mark. Hurt him. But for the first time that Derek could remember, not including the surprising jaw slam Derek had managed to land when he'd found Mark hitting on Meredith, Mark just let him.

And that made Derek angrier. The rage rattled down his windpipe with every heaving breath. Fucking hit me back, he wanted to yell. You always hit me back! Mark was being fucking gentle with him, and he didn't want gentle. Mark was never fucking gentle. Mark was blunt and coarse and nasty. He was a pit fighter. A dirty pit fighter when he got pissed. And he was supposed to hit Derek back. He always did. It's why Derek had a crooked nose. Mark always hit back, like it was his duty to prove to the world that he was strong and burly and able despite the fact that he was probably one of the most emotionally breakable people on the planet.

Except he didn't. He didn't hit back that time.

Which meant Derek was hurt. In need of being coddled.

And Derek wasn't either of those things.

He wasn't. Derek squeezed his fingers around Mark's biceps, felt his nails, even clipped as short as they were, digging into Mark's skin like knives. Mark swallowed, and still he didn't hit back despite the subtle squint around his eyes that told the story of his pain to anyone listening for it. "Fiancé?" Mark managed, his voice flat, though at the very last second, it upturned into a question.

Derek pulled back. "Girlfriend," he said.

"You said fiancé."

"Get out of my face, Mark."

"You said fiancé."

"I don't want…"

"Oh, man, you're getting hitched, too? Is there something in the water here? Does Mom know?" Mark babbled happily. Babbled. Happily. A smile yanked at his lips despite the thick, unyielding tension thrumming in the air like discordant guitar riffs. Mark. Mark looked like he actually wanted to say congratulations. Like he had the night after Derek had popped the question to Addison and she'd said yes. Mark had taken them both out for a drink, all smiles and lighthearted playfulness.

_To Addison and Derek! Congratulations, man. I'm almost jealous._

What. The. Fuck.

"She's not your mom," Derek snarled.

"She is, Derek," Mark replied quietly.

"Why do you keep trying to take my life?"

"They're my family, too, Derek," Mark said. "They have been since kindergarten."

"Yeah, well, back then, all you stole was comic books. I didn't have a wife or private MRI films."

_Gimme that. I want to read it._

_But I just got it._

_You can see it later._

_But…_

He'd been so angry. So angry when Mark had snatched away the newest issue of The Amazing Spider-Man. Stealing. Mark had stolen from him. Stolen. Broken the rules. Taken.

Derek had snapped out with his fist before he'd thought really clearly about the consequences. Mark had caught him mid-swing and swung back with his free hand. Derek had ended up flat on the pavement, his face a crushed mess, and Mark had started crying about his hand in some endless, nonsensical babble of pain. Derek hadn't cried, though that moment was one of his few clear memories of Mark ever doing it.

He remembered walking into the house, his face a bloody mess. Mark had followed him inside, hand clutched to his chest while he whined and moaned like a big baby, complaining about how Derek had broken his hand. His mother had been distraught and driven them both to the emergency room.

They'd compared injuries like war veterans. Mark, after he'd stopped flailing around in pain and melodramatic misery, had been convinced that because he'd technically broken four bones, his hand had been far cooler than Derek's fucked up nose, which, really, was only one broken bone. It had been the only time Derek had ever spent in the ER as a patient that hadn't been fraught with moments where he'd lain there realizing he couldn't get up and walk out on his own, moments where he'd realized he was at the mercy of strangers. Because they'd been comparing, and he'd been fine, save for the fact that his nose had swollen, and the skin under his eyes had blackened up into twin shiners that he'd had to carry around on his face for what had seemed like an eternity.

His classmates had teased him relentlessly at first.

_You look like a raccoon! _

Until Mark had fended them off, snarling, snapping. And nobody had been willing to say a word after that, because Mark had broken lots of bones in a fight. He was a dirty pit fighter. He was willing to risk personal injury. Just to hit somebody.

To a bunch of fourth graders in prep school, that had been pretty fucking scary. So, they'd left Derek alone. And everything had been okay. Mark had even given back the stupid comic book. Eventually. Though he'd never apologized for stealing it in the first place or breaking Derek's nose.

Derek hadn't minded at the time.

"Derek," Mark said calmly. "Addison wasn't your wife when I fell in love with her. She was a lonely, neglected woman who deserved more. I'm not the only bad guy in this."

"Stop trying to pass this off on me," Derek said. "It's what you always fucking do. Do you have even the slightest bit of regret?"

Mark stared at him for a moment. Something in his features shifted. Something. For a moment, he looked sorry. He did. And Derek found that twisting hope inside himself, once again. Maybe this would be the time. Maybe this would be the time that Mark would finally get it.

"I can't regret it, Derek. I love her," Mark said, deflating every pipe dream winding through Derek's head in a vicious, verbal punch. Festering anger burbled deep from an endless well. Mark had fucked his wife. His wife. His. And Mark didn't get it. "I regret what it did to you and me, though," Mark continued.

"You regret what **you** did to you and me," Derek muttered, realizing that the admission Mark had just given him was probably the best he was ever going to get. "Not what it did. You did it, Mark. You live with it."

He grabbed his films off the backlight. He needed to think. He needed to get away from Mark. He needed someplace quiet. He wanted to lie down and sleep it all away. Tired. He was tired. He just wanted…

"Derek," Mark said quietly. His fingers clasped around Derek's forearm and squeezed. Mark was in his space. His personal space. But it was a gentle intrusion.

"No," Derek said, flinching away. Away. "No, I need to… Perspective. I need to get--"

"Derek, the perspective is that your brain is bleeding. You're a time bomb. I know you're afraid of hospitals, Derek, but you can't let—"

"I'm not afraid!" Derek snarled.

"Okay," Mark said quickly, throwing his hands back in surrender. "Okay, man, but—"

"And, no, that's not the fucking perspective, Mark," Derek spat. "The perspective is that a craniotomy puts me at risk for developing epilepsy, which could ruin my career if I get it. The perspective is that I will be out of work entirely for at least six weeks, probably closer to eight. The perspective is that I won't be able to drive for months. I'll be on anti-convulsant medication. And if I won't be able to drive, I sure as hell won't be able fuck around with people's nervous systems using a knife. The perspective is that I'll have my fucking skull open on the table in the middle of the world's biggest gossip pit. The perspective is that all the people who sat and called me a McBastard and made fun of my fucked up life ever since Addison clacked into town on her nine hundred dollar stilettos, ever since you fucking chased after her, will be in charge of making sure my Foley bag isn't full," he yelled.

He gestured to the little patch of fuzz growing over where his stitches had been. Just a little chunk of missing hair. A centimeter thick for an inch or two along what had been his hairline before the accident. "People think this is funny. This. What do you think they're going to do when my whole head is shaved?" He started to pace. He knew exactly what they'd do. They'd make it joke fodder. He already was joke fodder. "McDreamy lost his McHair," he said in a falsetto, swooning voice that fell away into a heaving, rattling sigh. He breathed. He breathed. He breathed. Why. Why was this? "I don't want to… I don't… I'm fine. It could heal. There's a chance it will resolve on its own. There's a chance. I can. I can be okay."

"Derek…" a familiar voice said, and he jarred to a halt. Meredith stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes wide, looking small and vulnerable and frightened. Her lower lip quivered and she bit at it, worrying at it with her teeth. A bright, watery film made her eyes glisten.

Crying. She was going to cry.

"Meredith," he whispered. Why had he not noticed her standing there? Why had he…

"I came to see how you were… I…" she stammered. "The admitting nurse said you'd come in here with Dr. Weller… I…"

Her voice fell away into silence. Mark cleared his throat. "Well, uh. Yeah. I'll wait outside," he said. He started to leave, but he paused before he'd made it all the way through the doorway. "If you're not up talking with Dr. Weller sometime in the next hour, I'm going to tell the Chief his favorite neurosurgeon is in the process of killing himself."

And then he was gone from the threshold, probably waiting outside to pounce the moment Derek and Meredith left the room. But it didn't matter. None of it mattered.

"I can be okay, Meredith."

Meredith ignored him. She swallowed. Her eyes darted to the black films in his hands. "Are those? Let me see those," she said. He didn't try to stop her as she snatched them from him. He didn't try to stop her as she put them up against the backlight again. He sat down and collapsed his head into his palms, but he didn't try to stop her. She would have to know eventually. She would. He could lie to everyone else, but not to Meredith. He heard the snapping buzz of the light as she flicked it on. He heard her small gasp.

"I can be okay," he said, not looking up.

"Derek, this is not okay," she said, her tone low and… appalled. "This is far, far from okay!" she snapped. Her breathing quickened. She flicked the light off, and he heard her taking his films down. Erasing them again. They didn't feel as serious when he couldn't see them. Erasing them. Erasing.

Except she didn't keep them. She put them on the table in front of him again. Put the stark reality in front of his hands, in front of him, where he could reach out and touch it if he dared to move. The chair next to him creaked as she sat down. Her arms wrapped around him, pulled at him. He hugged her in return, sighing softly into her hair. She smelled so good. And she…

"I don't want to do this here," he whispered. He didn't want to do this anywhere. But especially not there. In Seattle Grace. Where he worked. Where people knew him.

"Then we'll take you to Mercy West. We'll take you to… I don't care, Derek. Anywhere you want," she replied. She pulled back and pointed to the films on the table. "Look at this. Derek, look at it. You need to get it taken care of."

"You're having your test. And Dr. Weller…"

"I'm sure Dr. Weller would be willing to perform this procedure at another hospital, Derek."

"But you're having your test," he said, his voice choking. He didn't want Meredith to fail her exam. And if he had this done somewhere else? If he had this done anywhere else, she'd… follow him. She'd try to be supportive and she'd sit with him and not study and not be around for the interesting casework that would help her learn. She'd…

He couldn't do that. He was probably going to wreck things for her anyway. He couldn't just…

No.

"So what if I'm having my test, Derek," she countered. "You're going to die. Not in fifty years. Not in forty. Now. You're going to die now." She slammed her hand down onto the table. "Look at this, Derek. Look at your films."

"I can heal. It could."

"You're on a narcotic analgesic, Derek. You're on a narcotic analgesic because this morning you were in so much pain you couldn't even talk to me. Look at this. This is the whole side of your head. This is clotting. Everywhere. Your body isn't going to fix this on its own, Derek."

"You're having your test," he said. "You have to be here at Seattle Grace."

She pulled him into a tight, clutching embrace. His collar pulled against his neck as she scrunched the back of his shirt between her fingers and gripped. Her nails dug into his skin. She kissed his neck, his jaw line. After a few moments, she found his lips and pulled his breath away. It was a desperate, frantic, needy, clingy vortex of sensation that left him panting, muddled, and wanting. Wanting more when she pulled away. He moaned when her warmth left him.

"I'll work something out, Derek. Please. Please, listen to me. You have to do this."

"No. No, you have to be here for your test. You're not going to fail. I'm supposed to help you study."

"Derek…"

He looked down at his films, slipped his fingers along the edges, almost petting. "I'm supposed to be the one fixing this… I don't have this. I fix this… I can fix…"

"Derek, please."

"This is major surgery," he said. He'd be intubated. And unconscious. And naked. And shaved. And… He forced himself to calm down. To stop panting. To relax his clenching muscles. But even conscious effort wouldn't slow his heart. It pounded in his ears like a chorus of timpani drums. Too fast. Too fast. Too fast. "This is… I'll be here at least a week, and that's assuming everything goes well."

"Everything will go fine, Derek," she said firmly. "You just have to have it done in the first place."

He stared at her for a moment. Stared. Unblinking. How could she be so fucking sure? The backs of his eyes started to sting. He blinked, and it went away. She was so sure. She was so sure. His Meredith was sitting there, hugging him, telling him it would be fine. She wasn't fleeing. She wasn't…

She was just there.

And trying so hard.

And that…

That was…

"What about Mom, I have to…"

"I can call Ellen, Derek."

"I need to pack."

"I'll bring you your clothes. It'll be okay."

"I…"

"Derek," she said. Her fingernails twisted through his hair, running along his scalp in soothing, calming motions. She kissed him again, slow and soft. "Derek, I'm here. I'll take care of it."

"I don't want this done with the gallery," he whispered. "I don't want to be a fucking learning experience."

"You're Seattle Grace's Head of Neurosurgery, Derek," she said. "You're one of the surgical wing's biggest sources of revenue. I'm sure, if you ask, the Chief will respect your wishes."

"What if I'm not Head of Neurosurgery anymore, Meredith?"

"You'll be fine."

"Mere," he said, his voice hitching. He curled his arms around her tiny frame and pulled her up against him. She sighed into his neck. She was just… there. She was just there, she was trying, and she had to be terrified. Terrified. And she was still there. "I'm so sorry…"

"The freaking deer is who should be sorry, not you," she said, sniffling. Her fingers ran in light little circles over his breastbone as she rested with the flat of her cheek against him, breathing, sort of crying, but not really, not yet. "Except it's dead. Derek, please. Please, go get the craniotomy done."

Meredith was very hard to resist.

Meredith was very hard to say no to.

Meredith.

"I'll go…" he said, feeling defeat slip through him like a sword. Everything twisted inside. Can't fix. Can't heal. Can't. "I'll go talk to the Chief," he said after a sucking breath. "Will you get my things?"

She pulled back, looking at him with a confused expression. "Derek, I can get your things later… You won't be able to wear them until you get out of the ICU. I can stay here. I can stay with you. I told you I wasn't running, and I meant it."

"I want. I…" he said, his voice trailing off.

He wanted his things.

He remembered the flashing lights, the thunder of voices overhead. He'd been awake in the ER. Awake while they'd peeled his clothes away with scissors, sort of like they were unwrapping a bloody present. Awake while they'd checked him over for injuries, analyzing him like some sort of expensive, delicate piece of mutton. Voices, people, all around, bustling, chaotic, trying to get his lung re-inflated, trying to fix the other broken things. He hadn't been able to breathe, hadn't been able to speak. Every inhalation had stabbed him from the inside out. He hadn't been a person, just a thing to fix. They'd taken it all away from him, barely covered him with a sheet that had kept getting displaced whenever someone new would check him over. Test after test after test. Needle stick after needle stick. He'd felt claustrophobic underneath the oxygen mask, but he hadn't been able to move, let alone tell them it was scaring him or that he had a family to call. Not a person, not a person, not a person. The night had slowly blurred. When he'd found his mind in coherent, working order again, Mark had been there, hovering behind the nurse while she'd checked him over.

_I'm so sorry, man. I'm so sorry. You were coming to pick me up. I'm sorry._

The world had been a slow, sluggish thing. They'd given him a bed and dressed him in a flimsy gown that barely covered anything. Dressed him. Like some helpless doll. Mark's hand had wrapped around his own and squeezed.

_Addi's coming. She was in surgery, so, they called me next. I'm mostly sober now. I took a taxi here. I should have taken a taxi to begin with. I'm so sorry. Mom is coming. I called everyone._

But Derek hadn't cared about the details. He'd taken Mark's hand and forced him to stay, to stop pacing, hadn't let the nurse kick Mark out. Mark had known Derek was Derek.

_It's okay, man. Don't worry._

"What do you want, Derek?" Meredith prodded.

"I want my things, Mere," he said, trying to blink it all away. He was glad the head injury had taken his visit to the ER with Meredith away from him forever. Glad. The trip after his motorcycle accident had been enough. Enough for a lifetime. "Please. I want…"

He was Derek Shepherd. He liked wearing flannel pants and t-shirts and socks. Because they were comfortable and warm for lounging around, but easily stripped off for the purposes of less than angelic activities. He liked to sleep next to Meredith. His side of the bed was always on the left. He fished, and hiked, and biked, and he used to like Manhattan, but now, not so much. Seattle was more to his taste, with its deep greens, wet air, and natural scenery. He was engaged to a beautiful, strong, empathetic, babbly woman. His favorite drink was scotch. Single malt. Not the mixed kind. And he liked the color blue. Not light blue. Indigo. He liked to read in his spare time. Older books. The classics. He wasn't much for cheap thrill fiction, and he didn't like watching television. Rules were his compass, though they often seemed to point him south when the natural flow of life begged him to go north or west or east. He hated noisy parties and getting drunk. He didn't ride motorcycles anymore. Ever. He wouldn't even look at them when he could help it. Cristina Yang would probably laugh her ass off to know that he, Derek Shepherd, top neurosurgeon, brain and spine jock, and, according to her, McBastard, felt a little sick whenever he watched her pull into the parking lot on her bike or roar away into the distance. She'd probably also be gleeful to discover he hated hospitals, hated them from the perspective of someone on the table, not someone standing over it. He was a surgeon. He saved lives. He liked meeting all the people, liked making them feel like they weren't slabs of meat to butcher. He took their power away, but he always tried his best to make sure it wasn't a situation to be frightened of. He took the time. Always. Learning their names, particularly, had become a necessity. He liked the way it made him feel to see a family saved by hard work his own hands had done. And he knew he was the best at it. He was Derek Shepherd.

"Okay," Meredith said as she searched his face with her gaze. "Okay, I'll go pack them for you. Do you want anything in particular?"

He was Derek Shepherd.

He was.

"I just want my things."

"Okay," she said. She leaned in and kissed him again. "I love you, Derek. I'll be back before... I'll be back in less than an hour."

He should have said it back, I love you, should have, but he was sitting there shivering, not really thinking straight, and by the time the words had clawed free of the tangled web, she was gone, already, no doubt, running to the car. He hoped she wouldn't get in trouble with Dr. Bailey. Mark came back into the conference room and cleared his throat.

"Go away," Derek said.

"No," Mark replied. "I'm walking you up to the Chief's office."

"I'm not a fucking baby, Mark."

"No, you're not. But even if you hate me, you've been my brother forever, and you fucking need some company until Meredith gets back. I don't exactly see a wealth of friends lining up at the door to take my place. So, deal with it."

Derek wanted to say he was too tired to argue. That that was why he gave up protesting. That's what Derek wanted to say. Except it was sort of a lie. When push came to shove, some very deep part of him, quivering underneath the surface, unearthed by nerves and exhaustion, not that he would ever admit it, really, really wanted Mark to stay.

"Fine," he muttered as he stood up.

He wobbled. On his feet, he wobbled. The sudden change in elevation made the room swirl. Mark wrapped his arm around Derek's waist without comment. They shuffled toward the door.

"My hand is still way cooler than this," Mark said.

Derek sighed tiredly, letting some of his weight fall onto Mark. He wrapped an arm over Mark's shoulder, shakily pulling a tent of his ex-friend's shirt between his fingers. "You want to compare four chipped knuckles to a bleeding brain?"

"I use this hand to make noses beautiful."

"I use this brain to save lives."

They stepped out into the hallway. Derek squinted at the change in illumination from annoying to painful, but he blinked, blinked, blinked it all away and forced himself to continue.

"You were a pansy," Mark said.

"You're the one who cried," Derek said.

"Like you never cry."

"Seriously? You want to compare me in tears over my girlfriend dying to you breaking your hand on my face? What is wrong with you?"

Mark laughed. "My hand is still way cooler."

The walk to the Chief's office seemed much shorter than usual, even despite Derek's fluttering nerves. And nobody asked. Nobody asked anything. Because Mark? Mark was very good at glaring. Derek shuffled in to meet the Chief, feeling sick and tired, and sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. But Mark had helped.

A little.


	37. Chapter 35

**Author's notes: Well, here it is. Part 35. This is only half of the original stuff I had planned for it, but it's huge. And I hope you agree it was worth the wait :) I know everyone is probably busy waiting in line for Harry Potter, but, well, hope you enjoy this in your spare moments :) **

* * *

Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. 

Meredith had allowed herself four minutes and thirty-seven seconds to freak out in the car after she'd slid into the seat, panting, out of breath from the rush and race of getting out of the building. She hadn't stopped to change. She hadn't stopped to tell anyone where she was going. She hadn't stopped. Period. But, when she'd finally settled behind the steering wheel and started fumbling to put the keys in the ignition, the relative pause had been enough to make her sniffling become sobbing.

For four minutes and thirty-seven seconds.

Derek was sick. Derek was not just PCS sick. He was dying sick. Imminently dying sick. And, if he hadn't had that appointment, she'd wondered how long things would have gone before they'd realized. Probably when he would have started falling into a stupor, or started seizing, collapsed into a pile of brain damaged scariness and out-of-control, spastic twitching. She'd tried not to imagine Derek having a seizure. Tonic-clonic seizures were scary enough to watch when it was someone you didn't know. No. Derek was sick, but he was fine. He was fine, she'd told herself. He was fine. They'd caught it. They'd caught the bleed while it was an emergency, but not yet an EMERGENCY. He was dying sick. But he wasn't going to die. Because they'd caught it.

They'd caught it.

Dr. Weller had caught it.

And Derek was going to get a craniotomy as soon as one of the non-galleried ORs cleared out for use. He wasn't going to die. Not then. Not right then. Not for years. Many years that would, with hope, be happy and fun-filled and long.

Fine. It was fine. He was fine. Would be fine. Fine.

She'd said she'd live with the fear, that she'd deal, and damn it, she was doing it. She was going to do it. She'd breathed, and breathed, and breathed, sucking back up her tumbling upset in rapid, chest-wrenching gulps.

Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds had ended quickly.

She'd wiped away her tears, blinked, blinked, blinked, started the car, and driven home to pack his things. Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Because if she'd taken any longer than that, she probably wouldn't have made it back in an hour without breaking laws. And she'd promised him she'd be back in less than an hour.

He'd looked so scared and… Lost. Lost, he'd looked… She wasn't used to seeing him anything less than cocksure and confident. Sure, he'd gotten upset a lot in the last week or so. But he'd never looked… Like that. Not when he'd had his first anxiety attack, which had been more about confusion and guilt interwoven in a crush of ugliness than terror. Not even on the plane. The plane thing… That had been a manufactured fear, exaggerated from a natural jumble of annoying but relatively harmless nerves. Manufactured by the freaking clots of blood collecting in his skull, expanding every second they waited to fix him. But the scared look he'd had when she'd forced him to face the reality of his MRI films had advertised something real. A real, deep-seated terror that had nothing to do with falsely generated anxiety in a normally easy-going person, and had everything to do with the fact that Derek apparently hated hospitals as a patient, hated being… Surrendered to other people. At other people's mercy.

_Do you trust me, Der?_

_Yes._

And, yet again, something he'd done, something he'd done recently, given real context, context in all the brilliant colors of a rainbow, seemed so much more… More. She'd felt like an idiot for not having let it sweep her off her feet when it had actually happened, though, in that instance, that might have been bad for the sex, since she would have been busy gibbering at him self-consciously instead of taking him into a series of orgasms that'd left him nonsensical and, in the end, sated to the point of not being able to move. Whatever. Anyway. Slow. Sometimes. On the uptake. She was. He really loved her. She knew it. But being constantly smacked with little details like that, little details that proved it with the severity of a two-by-four wielded by some muscle-bound mafia hit man named Clyde or Cliff while he beat her in the face with it… That was something else.

And the promise. The promise of less than an hour that she'd given him. That had suddenly seemed like an important one to keep.

She'd managed to stay relatively calm, even while she'd packed his things into his slightly torn duffel bag. She'd thought about using his suitcase from the Connecticut trip, but it'd been put away in the basement and would have taken time to dig out again. The duffel bag had been sitting in a crumpled up pile at the bottom of their closet. He used it for trips where he had to fly out on an overnight consult, and he'd tossed it there after his last one. Just a few weeks before, in the uncomfortable, unsettled void between the ferry disaster and their vacation. He'd assisted with a spinal repair somewhere in… Nevada, if she wasn't mistaken. The worn leather nametag that wrapped around the shoulder strap bore his name in neat, tight print, which would make things a ton easier for the orderlies who had to sort out where his stuff would go when they moved Derek from room to room depending on the level of care he needed. And the bag would fit a week's worth of sleepwear and odds and ends toiletries without trouble. She'd hoped.

It had.

She'd packed plenty of pajama type things and loose, comfortable daywear. Warm things. Cooler things. She hadn't been really sure what he would want. What did you pack for brain surgery? Brain… Craniotomy. A swell of bad stuff had caught her for a moment. Just a moment before she'd yanked everything into her very own personal brain clot where it pressed on her skull, started the gentle throbbing of a headache. She'd shaken her head and breathed, long and slow and calming. Her head had started aching, but at least she hadn't been falling apart with every item of clothing she packed.

He hadn't seemed to care much about the details of what she'd bring for him, just that he have something that was his. His and no one else's. Something to give him identity. She'd known his Harley accident was a deep wound on his psyche just from the fact that he wouldn't normally discuss it, but she'd assumed the jagged scar of memory had come from the accident itself, not the aftercare. It had become clear to her at that moment, that moment when he'd looked between her and his films, terrified, that lying on the pavement trying to breathe hadn't been what he considered the worst of it, or at least not the end of it. She would ask him. Later. After all this was over and it was okay again to talk about things that weren't rosy and perfect and fine. Because she wanted to know. Know him. Deeply know him. Every time she discovered one of those two-by-four details, it was a shock. But it was also a treat. A treasure hunt.

She'd sighed and continued packing.

Boxers. His battered pair of slippers. He didn't wear slippers very often and was actually more of a barefoot or socks person, which made it odd that he'd managed to beat the hell out of them so badly. But whatever. She'd thrown his aftershave, shaving cream, and his razor into the bag with everything else. Shampoo. He didn't really have a favorite like she did. Soap. Again, no real favorites. He just used whatever ended up in the shower. Toothpaste. Toothbrush. Wait. She'd backed up and pulled the shampoo out of the jumble. Why the hell would he need shampoo? She'd blinked while the tears had resettled back into pinpricks against the backs of her eyes, and the stupid rivulets of salty water streaming down her cheeks had tapered off again. Stupid, Meredith. She'd almost committed a horrible faux pas. If she'd shown up to the hospital with shampoo… She was sure he would have loved that. Just… Great.

Books. She'd pulled a few off his shelf, and then she'd thought better of it. Books. After a craniotomy, focusing and concentrating were usually very difficult for at least few weeks. She hadn't wanted to remind him of that, so she'd put them back. The books. The faint hint of panic had slapped her. What the hell was she supposed to give him to entertain himself with? Even crossword puzzles might be… challenging. He would be sleeping a lot. Bedridden for the most part. Walking down the hall would probably be a feat for him. What could she…? She'd yanked his iPod and charger off his dresser. That was something, at least. Audiobooks? She would buy some later when she had a chance. Maybe while he was napping. But not then.

Because she'd promised him less than an hour.

She'd been on her way out the door when she'd realized she'd skipped socks. Socks. By accident. He'd need socks. She had run back upstairs with the duffel bag, hot, rebellious tears jagging down her face despite her fierce initiative to not freak out anymore. Socks.

It had been his sock drawer that had finally broken her. The four minutes and thirty-seven seconds of sniffling in the car had been nothing compared to the heaving, jerking, awful distress that had happened over his sock drawer. Two minutes and fifty-three seconds. She'd collapsed onto the bed, holding a tangled mess of white fluffy socks between her clenching fingers, clutched against her chest like a teddy bear. She'd let herself fall apart for two minutes and fifty-three seconds, because, through the blur of crying, she'd checked her watch. She'd been ahead of schedule. Just a little. And two minutes and fifty-three seconds was all right to spend crying. It was all right.

Trying to pick up the pieces of herself from that volcanic eruption of sobbing had been difficult, but not impossible. She'd taken breath after calming breath, and forced herself back inside a bubble of false, shivery calm. Fine. Fine. Everything would be fine. She'd uncurled herself, picked herself up off the bed, and walked back to his sock drawer to finish packing.

She'd made it back to the hospital in forty-five miraculous minutes. Two light cycles that she normally would have caught red had let her through with the barest hint of yellow, giving her a solid argument that entering the intersection had been safe, and because of those two gifts, she'd managed to get back early.

She wiped her hands at her face. Dry. She looked in the rearview mirror and saw her scary, bloodshot eyes staring back. Her skin was blotched. Not crying, but definitely not okay. She dropped her hand to the pocket at her hip. The pocket of her scrubs. She rubbed it almost lovingly.

Fine. Fine. Everything was and would be fine.

She made a small effort to clean herself up, but after about thirty seconds, she realized it was going to be a futile effort. And she'd promised. Less than an hour. She'd promised. She slid out of the car and weakly grabbed at his duffel bag. It was a stupid thing to get upset over, she knew, but she snarled anyway when the handle caught on the parking brake. Fighting an exaggerated, unnecessary war, she growled and untangled it, giving the strap much more hurt and strangling pulling than was necessary. She threw the strap over her shoulder and locked the car. The alarm chirped as she hit the lock button on the keychain, and then she was back to the running thing.

Running.

She'd promised. Less than an hour.

It was the only thing keeping her afloat. The promise.

It had been forty-seven minutes by the time she tore through the main entryway. It had been forty-seven minutes and ten seconds when she jarred to a halt in front of the withering gaze of Dr. Bailey, who, really, shouldn't have been anywhere near the front doors to the hospital. What the hell? Not fair… Meredith clutched at the duffel bag and swallowed.

Dr. Bailey glared, her eyes wide and unblinking and… Naziish. Her fingers clenched around the bundle of papers and plastic baggies piled on top of her clipboard. The plastic crinkled. "Care to explain to me why my intern, my intern who should be running labs for my post-ops so that I can perhaps get home at a reasonable hour, is walking in from the parking lot with a damned suitcase, of all things?" she said. Her eyebrows lowered into a scowl. "Why am I carrying my own labs, Dr. Grey?"

"Dr. Bailey, I'm sorry," Meredith stammered. "I had. I was. I promised I'd be back in less than an hour. I had to. Derek is. I'm sorry." The tears she'd tried so hard to stop in the car, at the house… they spilled down over her face in an embarrassing testament to her state of mind. She wiped at her face, frantic, sniveling, but they wouldn't stop. They just wouldn't.

"Try again in English," Dr. Bailey snapped, though her face had lost its harsh edge as Meredith had started to cry in earnest.

"They're admitting Derek," Meredith managed to explain. "He needs a craniotomy to repair a sub—" she sniffled. "Subdural hematoma."

Dr. Bailey's face froze into a look of something… unreadable. Meredith sniffled and wiped at her face again. Damn it. Stop. Fine. Everything was fine… She ran her fingers down to her pocket. Fine.

"Acute?" Dr. Bailey asked, her voice low and cautious.

Acute hematomas usually meant death. Mortality rates were… Bad. Majority. The majority of patients diagnosed with acute subdural hematomas died. Bleeding for an acute hematoma… more like a flashflood than a leak. Hard to get under control. The patient would be fine, completely asymptomatic, and then he or she would blow a pupil, go into respiratory distress, seize, and die. Very little window of opportunity for a fix if the bleed wasn't detected early. And even the ones that got fixed… Brain damage usually happened to some degree.

Derek. Subacute. Less dangerous. Wider window. Detected early enough. Fine. Would be. Fine. Fine. Fine.

"Subacute," she replied, her voice wavering as she sniffed again. "Almost slow enough to present as chronic. Leftover from the accident. I'm sorry I left mid-shift. I'm sorry. I'm. He wanted his things, and he's so—" Scared. So scared. So scared.

Who was scared, exactly?

"Dr. Grey," Dr. Bailey said after she had regarded Meredith for a painful, long set of moments. "Your exam is in less than two weeks."

Meredith blinked as she felt the floor falling out from under her. Surely, Dr. Bailey couldn't be serious? Surely? She'd quit. If Dr. Bailey made her work during this. She couldn't work. Not while Derek was being admitted for being imminently dying sick. She'd quit. No job was worth not being there while her fiancé maybe died. Maybe. Freaking. Died.

"I know," she said, her voice inflating into something stronger as she breathed and breathed again. "But--"

Dr. Bailey's eyes narrowed as she said with definitive, point-making slowness, "I expect you to study for your exams."

"But Derek--"

"Dr. Shepherd will be sleeping a lot," Dr. Bailey said, protracting each syllable into its own pronounced entity, as if she were trying to get a point across to somebody who was… Slow. "You'll need a quiet place to study."

"But…"

"People recovering from anesthesia are quiet, Grey," Dr. Bailey said, enunciating even more slowly. "People recovering from major surgery are quiet."

The panic and distress and tears all faded away as Meredith finally got it. Finally understood. "All week?" she asked.

Dr. Bailey shrugged. "Studying is very important right now. Way more important than labs, I'd say."

"Thank you, Dr. Bailey," Meredith gushed, unable to stop herself as the building fight bled back out of her. "Thank… Thank you."

She took off for the admitting nurse. Fifty-two minutes by the time she got there. She asked for Derek Shepherd. Room 402. He'd been admitted already. One of the private, VIP rooms. Private. That was good. Derek wouldn't want… He'd want private.

She ran for the elevators. Their elevators. The elevator arrived with tormenting slowness. She launched herself inside and jammed her index finger down on the button for the fourth floor. The doors trundled shut. The trip was slow. Maddening. She hopped from foot to foot, back and forth, back and forth.

Fine, fine, fine. Everything would be fine. He wasn't going to die. That was… He wasn't. She rubbed her pocket. She still had time. They wouldn't have been able to prep him in less than an hour. She…

Skidded to a halt on a situation that seemed inversely calm to the tumbling jumble in her head. Mark sat in the room on the couch, working on his laptop, his fingers tap, tap, tapping across the keys. Otherwise, the room, the bed where she had expected to find Derek, was empty. The blinds against the window were open, revealing a pool of sunlight bathing the empty bed in light. The sheets hadn't even been disturbed yet. Empty.

"They didn't take him already, did they? I still had three minutes before I broke my promise!" she said frantically as she entered the room and glanced around. "I still had…" Time.

Mark looked up from his work. "He's in the bathroom. They just admitted him. We're waiting for OR 2 to clear out."

"Just admitted?"

"He had to talk to the Chief about long term disability leave, then he had to talk to Dr. Weller and sign the release forms, then he had to get some blood drawn for the anesthesiologist. We just came up from the hematology lab. They're rushing his tests. Relax, Meredith. It's a slow bleed. Two or three hours won't kill him. It's when we start going past that that we start really taking risks."

"But…"

The door to the bathroom opened. Derek stepped out. Slowly. He gripped the doorframe with shaky hands. One of those flimsy hospital gowns, tied in the back, not covering much, loosely gripped his thin frame. The gown was crisp and still had iron-lines in a large square pattern from where it had been folded. It stopped at mid-thigh. Skid-resistant hospital socks rose to his ankle joints. His hair, wet, but towel-dried to the point where a lot of it was frizzed and not dripping, stuck out every which way in a torrent of curls and mess. Dark circles of tiredness hugged his eyes, and his skin was a few shades too pale. He looked… miserable. And scared. And all sorts of other bad things.

"I'll go tell Kate you're ready, man," Mark said. "I have to check on some patients quickly, too. I'll be back in a few minutes." He flipped his laptop shut, stood, and left.

"Hey," she said as Derek slowly crossed the floor, trying to slather a smile on her face and failing dismally. She didn't offer to help. She didn't think he'd want it. But the whole sight of him like that, shuffling, unsure, scared, made her lip quiver. Made her eyes water up again. "I brought your stuff," she added as she set the duffel bag next to the bed.

He eased onto the bed with care, as if the movement was an effort. The sunlight soaked the foot of the bed, but his head was far away from it. He didn't have to squint, didn't look like it caused him pain. He gave her a weak, shaky smile that did nothing to hide his paleness or the subtle shivers racing along his skin, but his whole face brightened as he looked at her, and a twinkle returned to eyes that had, seconds before, been hazed with a dull sort of surrender. She rubbed her face again. She probably looked like hellspawn, all blotchy and bloodshot and sticky with evaporated tears. But she seemed to cheer him up just the same, and that was… That was good.

"Hey," he said back, his voice low and quiet. Almost breathy. "My stuff is in the bathroom. They made me take a shower with antibacterial soap. Can you…?"

She smiled, sniffling. "Sure." She retrieved his clothes from the bathroom where they sat folded on the edge of the sink and stuffed them in his duffel bag with his other things. He hadn't been wearing them for long. They were still clean.

She pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed. Alone. They were alone. Possibly for the last time in a while. She stared at him. Scared. She was. He was. But he didn't look like he was in pain at the moment, or suffering from much more than just exhaustion. "Derek, I—"

Someone rapped on the door, making her jump, startled. The door swung open as a nurse stepped into the room. She was a tall, slender woman with curly black hair tied back into a small ponytail, but the color was a fakish black, too black, the kind that resulted from a dye job, possibly to cover up some gray. Crow's feet, subtle spots of age, and general demeanor put her somewhere in her later forties or early fifties. "Hello, Dr. Shepherd," the nurse said cheerfully in a saccharine, too sweet tone that advertised its fakeness. As she trotted closer in the hurried gate typical of so many nurses and interns, Meredith was able to read her nametag. Kate. "Dr. Sloane told me you're ready."

Derek sighed. "Yeah."

"You've used the bathroom, removed all your clothes, and taken the shower?" the nurse clarified. Procedure. It was all just procedure to her. A whole big list of things that took away the humanity of it and made it a business. Disinfect the skin, empty the bladder and the bowels. Procedure.

"Yes," Derek answered. His voice had dropped in pitch. He blinked quickly, like he was trying to stave off tears as fiercely as Meredith was.

"Okay," Kate replied with a wide, heavy-wattage smile that was supposed to be cheerful, but Meredith found herself wanting to smack it off the woman's face. Couldn't she see how… Couldn't she understand?

Meredith reached across the bed and gripped Derek's free hand. His fingers were cold. And everything shivered. His little plastic wristband said Derek Shepherd in tiny print, and the band was color-coded to show he couldn't have sulfa drugs.

Derek looked away from Kate as she pulled up a tray, and he turned to Meredith, turned and stared at her like she was some sort of blotchy, teary-eyed lifeline. In that moment, in that split second where he was grasping for something, and she was sitting there, almost but not really crying, sitting there quivering and terrified right along with him, she felt, somehow, inadequate. How could she help him when all she wanted was for him to take her in his arms and tell her this was all a stupid, stupid nightmare brought on by bad chicken marsala? She really wanted that. Really. Anything.

He wasn't going to die, she told herself. He was going to be fine. These pathetic, shaky moments? Weren't the last ones she'd ever experience with him. They'd be… a funny thing to look back on later. Hah, hah, hah. See how scared we were over something silly? She just needed a moment alone with him. Just a moment.

Meredith glanced away from the crush of his pleading gaze. Kate was getting ready to set up an intravenous line. Okay. She swallowed. She could wait a few minutes until Kate had to step out. Yeah. Just a few more minutes, and then they would be alone again, and she would have her chance. She glanced back, and his gaze wrapped around her like a lariat and pulled her in.

She rubbed her fingers against his shivering, cold skin. His eyelids drooped. Subtly. Barely. But enough to show her she really did make a difference. She wanted to… talk to him. Verbally reassure him. But she wasn't sure how much he wanted Nurse Kate to be a participant in a conversation so intimate. Derek Shepherd, Head of Neurosurgery was sharp, collected, calm under pressure, and he certainly wasn't afraid. Certainly not. He didn't need his little slip of an intern telling him it would be all right. No, Derek Shepherd, the man he was when he was at home, when he was in the privacy of their bedroom, when he fished on the dock at his trailer, when he confided in her that Mark was the reason he was upset over the cheating, and not so much because of Addison, when he was a sexy tour guide in New York, when he read her parts of his books at night before the lights went out just to whisper his sexy voice at her because he knew it made her quiver, that Derek was the one who needed comforting. Needed it.

"Did you call Mom?" Derek asked, pointedly ignoring Kate as she tied off his arm and started searching for a vein.

"No, not yet," Meredith replied. "I was going to call her after they… take you."

"Oh," he said. He pulled his hand away from her and ran it through his hair. Then he pulled his hand away from his hair like he'd been scorched and stared at it funnily. A breathy, hitching chuckle fell from his lips, but his face… Far from amused. He ran his hand through his hair again, deliberate, not a nervous gesture, and his scowl deepened.

"All done," Kate said with a smile as she scooted back. Derek's gaze snapped to the intravenous line sticking out of his arm and he sat, silent, staring at it like it was poison, or a snake, or something else detestable. He closed his eyes, flexed his fingers, and leaned back against the pillow as Kate finished taping things up and turned on the saline drip.

"Hello everyone," Dr. Weller said as he stepped into the room.

"Dr. Weller," Derek said.

"It looks like it will be another thirty minutes at least before OR 2 is cleared and prepped again. Then we're good to go," Dr. Weller explained as he listened to Derek's heart and lungs, checked his blood pressure, and did a cursory physical examination. Derek endured it, silent, swallowing, staring ahead, not looking at either Dr. Weller or Meredith. Dr. Weller looked up and smiled before turning to Kate, who stood waiting by Dr. Weller's side. "Kate, would you get some lorazepam when you gather up the rest of his prescriptions? We'll start pushing them in a few minutes."

That yanked Derek out of his stupor of denial. "I don't need it," he said. "Please," he added, in a very unconfident, non-Derek way.

Dr. Weller frowned. "Derek, your body is under tremendous stress. The more stress it's under, the worse your recovery could potentially be. We need to get you relaxed, and I just don't see you doing that on your own. Not if what I'm seeing now is any indication."

Derek swallowed and didn't reply, looking rebuffed and small and… unsettled. It was hard to fake being fine when your entire body was on display and under a microscope of scrutiny. Dr. Weller frowned and left. "Don't worry, Dr. Shepherd. Everything will be fine," he said as he paused in the doorway. "Kate will be back in a few minutes."

Alone. Alone. Alone. And Kate would be back soon. A few minutes. Just a few.

"Derek," Meredith began as the door clicked shut, leaving them in silence.

He turned to stare at her. She took his hand up into her grasp again, and he relaxed. Just a little. "Meredith, it'll be fine," he said, flashing a beautiful smile at her. A beautiful smile that cracked around the edges and faded quickly like a sun flare dying out. "I'm fine. It's… fine," he assured her, even as he went back to shaking subtly.

She snorted at the sudden absurdity. "Okay, Der, trying to comfort me right now? Seriously? You're white as a freaking sheet, shaking, and totally lying, so don't bother. I'm fine. In a vaguely terrified sense, but fine. It's a craniotomy, Derek. It's just a… You'll be fine, and then we'll get married."

"I'm sorry, Mere. I'm—"

"Seriously, stop it," she snapped. "Just stop, you stupid, stupid man. Stop worrying about whether I'm freaking out, which I am, just a little, like I said, just a teensy…" Her breath hitched. She jarred her words to a halt. Arooga, arooga the inner siren moaned, for once warning her, for once shutting her up without outside intervention. Babbly, self-pitying rant ahead! Turn the ship about! She recollected the bits of her thoughts and tried again. "It's not your job right now. Okay? Making me feel better is not your job right now. I just…. You are going to be fine. And I will be here. The whole time. It's okay, Derek. It's… It's okay. And you don't need to try to comfort me. I know you're scared. I know you won't ever say it because of some stupid man code thing that I'll never understand, but I know it."

He sighed. "Mere..."

"Shut up," she said. "I'm building up to something here."

He chuckled lightly, though his face was still clipped with fear and other badness. "Okay," he said quietly. She rubbed his palm, grasping it in both hands. His eyelids drooped, and he visibly relaxed against the pillows.

"I love you," she said. "I love you a lot. More than… I just… I love you, and I know you're terrified. So, today? Today, your only job is to work on you. Not me. And I'm not going to spout a bunch of medical crap at you about how there's nothing to worry about, because even if the odds are excellent, you're a surgeon, you know the odds by rote, and you're going to focus on that one percent of badness anyway, because this is you on the table and not some patient, who you might care about, but you really don't know."

The relaxation she'd been building up in his features melted away as she reminded him. Reminded him of everything outside the realm of her face, which he refused to break his stare away from. "Mere…"

"Stop. Talking," she said. "I'm speechifying."

An amused expression pilfered his newfound worry away. "Speechifying," he said, his tone flat. His eyes did the laughing for him.

"Yes," she said, her voice snapping with something defensive. Speechifying was so a word! Just because he knew words like occipital and hemolyze and meninges didn't make him the expert on English. Half that crap wasn't English anyway. Seriously. "In the process of making a speech," she clarified.

"Mere..."

"Shh!" she hissed. "What was I saying?"

He grinned sheepishly at her. "Something about me wallowing in the bad part of good odds."

"Right," she said. She breathed. This was it. "So. Derek. The knee thing."

His tired but happy features degenerated into something pained and regretting. "Meredith, I'm so, so—"

"I don't want you to do it," she snapped before he managed to send the whole apology tumbling off his lips in a freefall of regret. She wished he would stop apologizing. He had nothing to be guilty about. Nothing. She rubbed his fingers, his hand, trying to reassure him, but he took the meaning of her words and ran the opposite direction with it. The direction that took him about as far from what she had meant as possible.

The look on his face collapsed into misery. His grip clenched around her fingers painfully. His breath caught. The little bit of color still clinging desperately to his cheeks seeped away and left behind a pale, unhealthy alabaster. He looked awful. Like she'd just killed his dog. Or ripped his heart out, fed it to his dog, and then killed it. She swallowed back the lump in her throat when she realized what that last bit must have sounded like to him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"What?" he said, his voice weak, almost as if he'd been punched in the gut. He blinked, and a pair of fat tears streaked down his face. "No. Mere, please," he said. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sick, I—"

Guilt struck her to the core. He thought she was running away because of… Because he was sick? Hell, he thought she was running away. Period. Why did she always have to be so fucking flighty when things got rough?

"Will you shut up and leave your guilt complex at the door!" she snapped, horrified at how this had gone so badly already, horrified, and snapping and nasty because… This was her fault, and... She rushed to continue, "I love you. I'm not breaking up with you. I still want to get married. I just don't want you to do the knee thing. It was silly, and…" she said. Hurry, hurry. Before he freaks out even more. "And I…"

Maybe it was her own guilt complex. Not his. This was not going as picture perfect as she had imagined in her head. In the moment in her head, she'd only needed a few seconds to gather her thoughts and explain everything. But this was. Big. For her. For them. Big. She felt like every word spilling out of her mouth was shoving at a boulder the size of her house. And it would take more than a few pushes to roll the thing off the cliff.

"Mere," he whispered into the tense silence, his voice racked with emotion.

"Let. Me. Finish," she said. "I just. Bear with me here. I'm trying, Derek. I'm trying to do a thing here. But it's a good thing. I swear."

"Okay," he whispered. His upset had halted, but his face remained frozen in curious misery. Relief had him panting. She really didn't want to know what a heart monitor would sound like were it attached to him. Kate hadn't hooked one up yet. He looked, after the yo-yo of good to bad to neutral, like she'd steamrolled him and dragged him for a mile.

God.

She hadn't meant to make it look like she was breaking up with him. Before his surgery. His brain was bleeding, he was having surgery that he was terrified about, and she'd gone and… Made it worse. This was to fix it. Not to make it worse. Not to... Hurry, hurry. She probably could have worded things better… but she… She was… Damn it, she deserved to have a moment of inarticulate stupidness when she was about to do something so…

Huge.

She took a deep, cleansing breath, and bolstered herself to continue, sense or no sense, she had to speak. Preferably with words and not strange, inarticulate moaning and gestures. Those would, with luck, come later. After he could… do stuff. Again.

"I don't want to be one of those people who looks back on a moment and regrets not taking what she wants," she said as she caressed his fingers. He'd stopped shaking for a moment. He didn't look so… sick. "And I freaking want you. I want you more than anything in my whole entire life."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the little velveteen box that had been sitting there since she'd found it in his sock drawer. It shook in her hands. The creak that sliced the air as she opened it up seemed like a burst of thunder in the sudden quiet. She stood up, released his hand, and sat down on the edge of the bed next to him. Her hip brushed up against his thigh, which jerked as though a zap of electricity had passed between them. The mattress dipped under her slight weight. The chair she'd evacuated trundled back on the wheels in a slow reaction to the force of her departure.

"So, Derek Shepherd…" she said. She inhaled deeply as she held the little ring box out to him in a shaky offering. "Will you marry me?"

He blinked. Once, twice. His gaze went down to the ring, back up to her, down to the ring, back up to her. Silence. The ring sparkled under the bath of sunlight, which suddenly felt hot against her back, against her arms. Hotter than before. His eyes widened a little in a subtle revelation of his surprise, though the rest of him stayed still as stone. She really didn't want to hear a heart monitor now. She didn't want to know how close she'd probably come to killing him in this moment that should have been perfect. She didn't want to know.

For a march of five seconds, maybe ten, though it seemed like hours, he just stared. Back and forth and back and forth. Like he'd been slapped into a stupor and wasn't quite connecting the dots yet. The cartoon stars were still circling. Meredith. Ring. Words. Meredith. Ring. Words.

What?

Does not compute.

It would have been comical if the situation hadn't been so… Bad.

He cleared his throat, and a smile slowly pulled his lips up. The twinkle that she'd sucked out of his eyes with her faux breakup speech came roaring back as he blinked again and everything sunk in. The confusion waned into nothing. He breathed. Cleared his throat again.

"I…" he began, but everything jittered to a wheezy halt, and Derek Shepherd remained in the grips of uncharacteristic speechlessness. He swallowed and tried again. "Well, the ring is kind of girly, Mere," he managed. "A princess cut? I don't know if I'd be able to live that down."

He smirked.

Actually. Freaking. Smirked.

Her mouth fell open. "You're such an ass!" she said, but she couldn't help the grin that seeped across her features like a healing water. Heat flushed her cheeks, but it was neither a nervous heat, nor an embarrassed one. She slapped his arm, playful, careful not to be too rough.

"You love me, though," he said as he clutched at the ring box and she relinquished it into his keeping.

"I do," she agreed. "I really, really do."

She pulled her legs up from the floor. Not caring. Not caring what it would look like to anyone who stepped in. Not caring that she shouldn't because he was going to get taken away soon. Not caring that it was completely against protocol. She settled on top of the blankets against him and laid her head against his shoulder. His left hand snaked around her waist and gripped her tightly against him. The ring box rested against her abdomen, clutched in the hand of the arm that was wrapped around her.

"I love you, too," he said. The sheets rustled and settled as she stilled. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head.

"That's a yes, right?" she asked as she rubbed her palm in soothing circles against his chest. His whole frame seemed to melt as the tension bled away. "I mean, not to be a paranoid, abandonment-fearing freak or anything, but…"

She pulled away to stare at him. Sparkling blue met her gaze. He raised his right hand, the intravenous drip followed the movement of his arm, and he gripped her chin softly, pulling her up into a quick, light kiss against his lips. He dipped his tongue into her, tasted her. She moaned. It ended in seconds, but it was a good kiss. A strong kiss. A perfect one.

A kiss that said, yes. Yes. Yes!

He reached across her torso with his free right hand as she resettled against him and pulled the ring from the box clutched in his left. He withdrew his arm from its position around her waist and pushed against her. He reached out in front of her with the little ring in hand. She raised her left hand, and he slipped the tiny platinum band down over the first knuckle of her ring finger and then the second. It settled at the base of her finger, and it fit… perfectly. His fingers brushed her skin, and then he squeezed her palm in a loving gesture.

"Fiancé," he said as she held her hand out in front of them, and they stared. "Officially?"

"Fiancé," she agreed. "Officially."

The moment hadn't seemed perfect at first, not with her stumbling, stupid, calamitous start, but it had recovered from its flaws into something... resplendent. Sort of like her diamond ring. The gem sparkled in its setting as she shifted her hand back and forth in the light.

"Fits," she observed.

"Yep," he agreed.

They stared.

A harsh knock jerked them out of the sudden peace. Nurse Kate barged in at a trot. "Dr. Shepherd…" she began, breathless, a whole pile of medications clutched in her hands. She made it all of five steps before realization widened her eyes. Her gaze darted to the sparkly ring that hadn't been there before, to the relaxed, intimate pose of the bed's occupants, her breath caught, and then she looked back to the pile of crap she held in her hands. "Oh."

"Just another few minutes?" Meredith begged. A few minutes wouldn't… Hurt. They wouldn't. She needed… A few.

"Shhhi," Kate hissed before she managed to stop herself from saying something not professional, something gushy and profoundly appropriate despite how inappropriate it was. "I mean," she stuttered. "Sure."

The door closed again behind her as she stumbled out.

"So, Mere," Derek said, his light chuckle rumbling in the quiet.

"Yeah?" she answered lazily as she let her hand fall down into his lap, dangerously near sex-related territory, though the gesture wasn't… Sexed. Just intimate.

"Not that I'm knocking your speechifying or anything," he said, rubbing her back. "More speechifying, I say. But…"

"What?"

"You made kind of a logical leap there. You're not going to die on the table to please, marry me?"

"Huh?" she said stupidly, blinking. And then she realized, to an outsider looking in on the rambly bits of her brain that had escaped into words, all that stuff really probably had seemed random. Even to someone who was a bit more used to interpreting. She'd tried. She had tried to make it coherent. But. When the proposal had been perceived as a Dear John speech, it had become obvious that the whole coherency thing had been blown to babbly, syllabic pieces of junk. "Oh, that," she said, waving her hand in a haughty, dismissive gesture, like she had totally meant for herself to come off as speechifically challenged. "There was totally a connection. I'm telling karma to fuck off."

He blinked. "What?"

"There's nothing to regret now," she explained. "There aren't any moments to look back on and say, I should have. So, there's absolutely no way you're going to… You'll be fine. You should just relax and enjoy the six to eight weeks of coddling."

"Okay, I can usually get the gist, Mere, but… Brain. Bleeding. I'm at a disadvantage today." He stared at her helplessly, but he had an air of good humor about him, and she was glad he could joke about it.

"Karma and I have this whole hate, hate thing going on," she said. "Something would only go wrong if there was something I could regret for all eternity. I've sealed your fate, buster. You're waking up, complication free, and I get to drag you home to heal and do my laundry. Or something. Do you mow lawns? After your head is fixed, I mean."

"Your laundry," he replied flatly, but a smile stole his serious expression away.

"Yeah, it's a thing I was wondering before… Er, nevermind. Anyway. Fine. You. Me. Us. All fine. There's much fineness here. Behold the fine."

He chuckled. "Well, I guess I'm good then. Does this coddling you mentioned involve kissing?"

She grinned, leaning into him, clutching at his shoulders. "Maybe," she whispered, sultry, seductive, millimeters from his lips. He shoved forward through the extra space between them and captured her in a kiss that left her head spinning, left her with a burning need that she was unable to slake with mental admonishments. "Okay, I guess it does," she answered, panting as she lowered her head back down to his chest, trying to recover. "That was… Yeah."

Meanie. He knew they weren't going to be having sex for at least a week.

A whole week.

A whole. Week. At least.

Stupid surgery.

"You can't make me want sex now," she pouted. "That's mean."

"Just trying to ensure good anesthesia dreams," he said as he resumed his idle, reassuring strokes up and down her back with his palm. "Speaking of sex, though, if you feel like running your fingers through my sexy, but at the moment, disastrous locks, I hear now's the time," he said. She pulled back and looked up at him. He was grinning. And he winked at her when she met his eyes.

She reached up and swept her fingers through his hair. It did look rather disastrous at the moment, all dried frizzy, uncombed, and jutting out at freakish angles that defied the laws of gravity. She would miss it. The hair. Definitely one of her favorite features, not that he had a whole lot of features she ranked below at least great. "We should save it in a bag or something in case I get the shakes," she joked.

He snorted. "Cheating on me with a bag of my ex-hair. Shameful. Just shameful. It's not even combed."

"I hear bald is beautiful, you know," she whispered, rubbing her nails against his scalp, through his hair, petting, carefully working around a few tangles, not pulling, because he liked it, and she loved the way he just… Flattened out into a sedate, Derek-y puddle whenever she did it.

For a moment, he was fine. He was fine, they were engaged, they were joking, and petting, and it was all right. But then, like someone had flicked a switch, his features shifted, and he remembered. She saw it on his face.

He remembered that they were sitting in a hospital bed and he was going to get dragged off to the prep area soon, where they'd finish getting him ready. They'd put him in compression stockings to promote blood flow in his legs, because he'd be immobile for a prolonged period. Immobile. They'd finish checking his vitals, they'd hook him up to monitors that displayed everything about him to anyone who bothered to read them, they'd put a mask over his face and tell him to take deep breaths, deep breaths, to think of something happy, which, really, was a ludicrous thing to say. And then he'd be out. Sleeping, but not really. Just… gone. Derek Shepherd would be a body. They'd shave off his hair, push a tube down his throat, pull back his flimsy gown and insert a Foley catheter to collect his urine because he wouldn't be able to get up and take care of it himself, and then, after all that, they'd drill his skull open. When he would wake up, he'd be sick all over again, just from the sheer amount of drugs in his system, let alone the fact that his body would have to heal the hurting mess left behind in his head, the mess left behind by a bunch of strangers. He'd be sick and literally attached to the bed because of all the wires and things. Not that he would care much about walking at that point.

But, at least, he wouldn't be dying anymore. The hurting mess would be a fixed hurting mess.

In that moment, though, she understood just how fiercely he was dreading this experience. Because he was Derek Shepherd. Derek Shepherd could walk when he wanted. He could pee when he wanted. He could breathe when he wanted. He could style his hair with whatever product made him McDreamy and come to work all smiley, smirky perfect. He was fine, and healthy, and energetic. And, despite his arrogant, bantering, confident demeanor about his sexuality and his self, he was an intensely private person when it came down to it. Sure, he'd joke about noisy sex. Sure, he'd jokingly wished aloud to tell everyone he was boinking an intern, back when she hadn't wanted anyone to know. But that was what it was to him. Joking.

Just joking.

And this wasn't.

"I am scared, Mere," he whispered, so softly she almost thought she might have imagined it. "Not about dying, just…" His words drifted off into silence, and he breathed to wash their remnants away.

She paused. Her breath caught. He'd told her before that he'd been scared when she'd died. But it had been a past tense sort of thing. He'd been able to look back on it and admit it. He'd never told her before in the act of it. In the act of being scared. Naturally, not the time when she'd been dead, because, well, duh. But other times. He wasn't made of stone. Things scared him. He was finally telling her in the moment. Scared. He was scared, and he'd admitted it. Out loud. And that was something so desperately intimate that it made her heart hurt.

She ran her fingers over him, everywhere, touching, reassuring, hoping she could be what he needed. Because when she was like this… When she was scared or crying or lonely or something else bad, he was always what she needed. He was perfect for her. And she wanted it to be something mutual.

"It's okay," she said. "I'll be here."

"I don't want to do this," he said, his voice small. "They're going to knock me out. They're going to…"

"I know. I'll still be here."

"I know this is… I know you're freaking out, too."

She stopped her soothing petting. "I told you, Derek. You don't get to worry about me right now. Besides. Only a little. I'm only freaking out a little. In an extremely non-mobile fashion. See?" she said, gesturing to herself, unable to stop the smile that gripped her face as her ring flickered in the light. She was very happy right then, just lying against him, enjoying his warmth, his closeness. "Non. Mobile. I'll be here. And you'll be fine. You'll be back to cutting in no time."

She didn't want to think about epilepsy right then. Or any of the other potential complications. She didn't. They would deal with that stuff when it happened. If it happened. The risks were… necessary. And… She just…

No.

She was wearing a ring. She was happy. Life was perfect, mostly. Derek would get this surgery done, and he would be fine. And they would be fine. And then they'd get married. Someday. On some mystery date that, at some point, would probably seem right to her, though nothing was jumping out right that moment as the date destined for their marriage. But they would get married. Just like they were supposed to.

It was official now.

Nurse Kate barged back in. "Okay. I'm really sorry, you two, but I need to…" She jiggled her bundle in a vague attempt at emphasis. Bottles clinked, and she struggled to rebalance and make sure none fell.

Kate pulled up a chair and set all the little bottles of things down on the table. Bottles of things that would be racing through Derek's circulatory system in just a few minutes. Meredith sighed and stood up from the bed, relinquishing the warm comfort of his body and his breathing and the rumbles of his voice against her torso to the stupid wheeled chair that she'd been sitting in before the whole proposal thing.

She took his hand back up into her grasp, and he watched her while Kate pushed drug after drug down into the intravenous line. Drugs that he needed to prevent his intracranial pressure from spiking up to a level that would cause damage. Painkillers. They were switching him to a non-pill form since he would be off solid food for a while. The lorazepam went last. That would keep him from seizing, but it would also melt him down into a falsely relaxed pile of muscles that didn't really care if Derek was going to get cut open in just a short hour or two.

At first, it was like nothing had happened. At first. He blinked once a few minutes after the lorazepam went in, like he was under some sort of crush. His eyelids came back up really slowly, almost like they had weights attached to them. He blinked again. Everything about him just… Loosened. He let out a disgusted-sounding moan, like he knew what was happening, didn't want it to, and couldn't stop it. Then he laughed, strange, euphoric, weird. Then he sighed.

What little that remained of his worrying bled out of his face, and he was so busy adjusting to all the narcotics in his system that he didn't even blink when Mark finally returned, sat down without word, and flipped his laptop back open. Mark's gaze darted to Meredith's hand and fell on the sparkle of her ring. Just for a moment. He winked at her and resettled into whatever work he'd been doing before he'd left. Derek lay on the bed, passive, sedate, and staring dully as Kate hooked up a heart monitor to the middle finger of his right hand and a slow, steady march of beats started bleeping for them all to hear.

He rolled his head to the side to look at Meredith. He inhaled, slow and sucking and lackadaisical. His shoulders rose as his chest filled. Then he let it all out in a long, raspy exhalation that puffed his cheeks up like he was blowing into a trumpet or a balloon or something. The next breath he took was more reasonable.

"You proposed," he said, his voice thick with all the relaxants. A lazy smile pulled at his lips. And he looked… goofy. Positively goofy.

"Yeah, I kind of did," she replied as she rubbed his hand. There was no grip to it. He didn't do anything back to her. It was like holding something inanimate. "How was it?"

She imagined if she were to drop his hand, he wouldn't catch it. It'd just fall to the bed. Not because he was weak. Just because he didn't care at all. That was… good. Comforting. At least he wasn't worrying anymore. At least he wasn't frightened.

"Best one I ever received," he replied happily. A twitch ran through his body, and he resettled, even more loose than he had been a moment before.

"Derek…" Meredith replied. "Unless you've got a closet full of ex-fiancés I don't know about…"

He laughed. It was a rolling, ill-defined sound that ended in a tired, sleepy, slur of syllables, "Perfect. S'nice." He paused. Blinked. Slow. Almost as if he wasn't going to open his eyes again, but he managed after a few seconds of struggling. "You're not running."

Her heart fluttered. He was really, really out of it. Somehow, she hadn't expected it to happen so fast. She hadn't expected her Derek to be gone yet. But this was… Weird. And stupid, because she'd seen it all before. She knew what all the crap in his veins did to a person. And she knew why he hated it so much.

"Nope," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."

He laughed like it was something funny. His breath hitched. "I wouldn't blame you. This is kind of ridiculous, you know." He pulled his hand back from hers and gestured loosely at his head before letting his hand fall back to the bed like an afterthought of flesh and bone. "Brain surgeon with a fucking brain bleed. The universe obviously has made me its joke. I wouldn't blame you. If you ran."

Her first response was something defensive. Something exasperated. Damn it, she wasn't running anymore. She wasn't.

She settled on saying, "I'm going to let all that slide since you appear to be sort of stoned." She really, really hoped the morphine hadn't done this to her. Morphine. Had Kate given him morphine in the mix? Oh, god, she really hoped the morphine hadn't done… this. She knew he'd gotten a painkiller in that cocktail.

Her face flushed. She tried to read the labels on all the little bottles Kate had taken medication from, but at least two were turned away, and of the ones she could see, there were no painkillers in the bunch. She was too afraid to ask. Because if it really was morphine, she probably had acted this dopey. Let it be the lorazepam, she thought. Yes. Lorazepam.

He grinned at her like a kid receiving a fistful Halloween candy instead of one piece, toothy, silly-looking. "'Kay," he said. He turned to Kate, who was checking over the various monitors and watching him with a studious, serious face despite the hilarity. "She's marrying me, you know," he said. His gestured at Meredith loosely with his hand.

"I saw, Dr. Shepherd," Kate said with a real smile, not a faked one. Her eyes sparkled as she happily started re-checking everything. "Congratulations. I take it the drugs are working. Can you tell me if anything doesn't feel right? Heart palpitations, tremors, anything like that?"

"Hah," Derek said. "I feel super. Sooooo-per. Yeah. So, if you saw, does this mean the whole hospital knows now?"

Kate frowned. Just a little. "I might have told Debbie."

Nurse Debbie? Meredith sighed. That meant the whole hospital would know. And fast. Derek seemed to come to the same conclusion, albeit more slowly and with a lot more serious thinking that looked positively ridiculous against his slack features.

He rolled back to face Meredith. "You might want to get on the PA, Mere, if you actually want to tell anyone yourself. I said yes, right? I meant to say yes."

"I'm good here," she said, caressing his hand, trying desperately not to laugh at him. She managed to curtail everything into a little sputtering sound, one that he didn't even appear to notice. He really was stoned. Really. She didn't know if it was the lorazepam, or the maybe-morphine, or just the whole combination of crap circulating inside him. But, really, the result was… "Yes, you said yes, Derek."

Stoned. The result was stoned.

He looked down and watched her as she pulled her thumb across his palm in slow, soothing circles. "You're good anywhere," he said matter-of-factly. "On… planes. Beds. Oh, and in on-call rooms. The exam room was pretty good, too, even though it was wrong."

Mark looked up from his laptop, a look of glee pinching at his features, and Meredith felt a blush seep across her skin in a hot flash. "Derek…" she hissed.

"Cheating is bad, y'know," he said. "What?"

She laughed nervously as Mark resettled into working. "Little chatty, there," she said.

"Hah," he said and continued in a rolling drawl, "Yeah. You're really hot." He turned back to Kate. "Isn't she hot? She's super flexible."

Mark made a choking noise, but to his credit, he continued typing.

Kate blushed. "Um," she stuttered.

"Super flex—Can you put my ex-hair in a bag after you shave it off? Mere wants it. I should get a baseball cap. I should…" he rambled, and then he turned to look at Mark, as if Derek were noticing him for the first time. "What're you still doing here?"

Mark looked up and wiped his hand down the portion of his beard covering his chin in a rustle of motion. He stared. Derek stared back, though his gaze wandered a bit as his attention was drawn elsewhere by various noises and who knew what else. Mark sighed, flipped his laptop shut, and shoved it to the side of him on the couch. He stood up from the couch and walked over to sit in a chair on the side of the bed opposite to Meredith.

"Derek," Mark began as he sat down with another heaving sigh. "I was hoping… Do you want me to close? It would minimize scarring."

"No," Derek replied.

"But…"

"Won't see it anyway after everything grows back. We're bagging my ex-hair, right? Mere wants it. I'm getting married!"

"I know," Mark said reasonably. "Congratulations, Derek."

Derek shook his head. "Don't say that. You said that the last time. You can't be my best man this time, either. You're a fucking awful best man. The bride is supposed to belong to the groom."

"Derek, let me close," Mark insisted.

"No. I hate you."

"You know," Mark said. He let his gaze fall on Meredith and the concerned look in his eyes softened. "Meredith would probably want me to close. Bald is only beautiful if your scalp isn't mangled."

"No," Derek said without hesitation, and in that moment, in that syllable, he didn't seem drugged out of his mind at all. And then he slipped away again behind the sluggish glaze of drugs. "She's my fiancé. I'm getting married, you know."

Mark frowned. "I know, man."

Derek sighed. "They're going to strip me, shave me, shove tubes into me, and drill me open," he observed, almost as if he were reading the newspaper. Nope. Nothing to see here. Nothing to worry about-- "To fix my fucking brain. How fucked up is that?" he said. Shame about the weather. Shame they overcharged me five cents. Shame. Just like that, he said it.

"Pretty fucked up," Mark agreed, and then his tone fell into something lower, softer, pleading. "Derek, please. Let me do this for you."

"Fuck off, Mark," Derek spat, but there was no anger in it, no vitriol, and his heart rate stayed steady and slow and sedate. It was a response by rote, and Derek was too far gone to be able to really care, it seemed. Meredith made shushing noises anyway.

Mark scooted his chair back. "You really hate me that much?"

"No."

"Then, why?"

"You stole everything else from me," Derek replied, his expression dipping into something dark and scowling. His words bit deep with their serrated edges, and Meredith had no doubt that this was in spite of the drugs, that the badness was seeping through the smokescreen of his enforced stupor. Real Derek breaking through. "I think I still have a scrap of dignity, though," Derek continued. "Somewhere. I think." His gaze wandered off into someplace distant again. "I said yes right? Please…"

"Derek…" Meredith whispered, practically petting him. "It's all right."

He sucked in a breath and let out a sobbing sound. Just one. And then he shuddered and moaned like he was spitting out something bad tasting and painful. When he looked up at Mark, his eyes were hooded with the same sort of frightened pleading he'd had in his eyes before the proposal, when he'd been looking at Meredith like she was his only comfort in the world. "I just want you to…" he began, his voice quiet.

Mark leaned inches closer. His eyes widened. "What?" Mark prodded, his tone gripped in a vice of anxiety. "Anything. What?"

Derek's loose gaze hardened at the sound. "Fuck off. Trusting you was the second worst mistake I ever made." He flopped back against the pillows, blinked, and was hovering back in a relaxed stupor. He looked over to Meredith. "I said yes, right?"

"Yes, Derek," she said, trying not to cry. This was starting to not be funny. Not at all. "You said yes."

"Good," he replied. "Sometimes I say no to things I really, really want."

_Oh. You're staying with her._

_She's my wife._

He sighed. His eyes drooped shut. "I said yes," he whispered. "This time, I said yes."

"Yes, you did, Derek," she agreed.

"I didn't screw it up."

She grinned. "Nope."

He grinned back, eyes still shut. "'Kay. That's good. Good that I didn't."

Dr. Weller knocked and re-entered the room with a wide smile. "Okay, everyone. I've been told we're good to go. The blood work we've managed to finish up looks wonderful. And since Derek hasn't eaten anyway in the last sixteen hours or so, post-op should be relatively smooth, we hope. Any last minute questions?"

Derek laughed. "I'm getting married!" he said, still sort of semi-dozing with his eyes shut. He gestured in the direction Meredith sat. Loosely. Almost like a spasm.

Dr. Weller coughed. "Right," he said, but to his credit, he only spluttered for a breath or two. "Congratulations!" he added cheerfully. And then he turned to her. "Dr. Grey, do you have any questions?"

"I'm a nervous wreck. Can I have what he's having?" she asked.

Everyone in the room had a good chuckle over that, even her. Derek laughed, but she doubted he had a clue what he was laughing at. Before she knew it, the orderlies had come to wheel Derek away. She made them wait. Just a second. One more second wouldn't hurt. Just… One. She leaned down and kissed him. She ran her fingers through his hair, slowly, reverently, soothing. He sighed at her. "I love you," she said. "I'll be here when you wake up."

He grinned lazily up at her. "I love you, too," he said. "I said yes, right?"

"Yeah, Derek. You did," she replied.

"Good," he said. "That's good."

They wheeled him away. She heard him muttering, insisting that they give her his hair in a bag. The orderlies had a fun time with that. She hoped they wouldn't tease him when he woke up. She hoped no one would tease him. She doubted he would remember any of this. And he didn't deserve to have people making fun. He didn't deserve any of this.

She stared at the empty room where his bed had been. It would be hours before she heard any news, she suspected, unless something went very badly, very quickly. Study. She could… study in the gallery, or something. She didn't know. She wouldn't check in on him, despite the fact that she easily could. Because she couldn't. She couldn't do that to him.

Tying him up was one thing. If he'd really wanted, if he'd **really, really** wanted, he could have kicked her, or bitten her, or done something to fight back, assuming she wouldn't have just untied him, which was a ridiculous notion. If he'd asked to be released, she would have let his hands down in a heartbeat or less.

This was different. Entirely different. Watching him in the most vulnerable hours of his life? No. Nobody was going to let him up this time. And he couldn't kick or bite or scream. Once he was out, he was out, and there would be no going back. He would be owned. And it wouldn't be mutual. It wouldn't be an exercise in trust. It would be a dehumanizing thing that he had to endure to save his life. In the moments he'd stared into her eyes before they'd taken him away, when it had been just them, waiting, she'd understood it. It had made her understand a lot of things. About Derek. About others. She understood why Dr. Bailey hadn't let her in on Cristina's surgery. She understood.

And she couldn't watch. She didn't want to.

She wanted to share everything with him. Everything. But sometimes… something wasn't shareable. And this was one of those things. Her gift. She wouldn't watch. And even if he would never say it, he'd probably be thankful for it. That was enough for her.

A rush of air swept her face. She blinked back to the present.

"Mark," she said as she watched Derek's former friend fly past her in a breeze of motion. Dread nipped at her heart. He was an attending. She couldn't really stop him… "Where are you going?"

He shrugged. "He's high as a kite, and pretty soon they'll just knock him the rest of the way out. He won't know."

Her stomach sank. She'd had a feeling… "He said no," she snapped.

"But don't you want no scarring?" Mark asked as he turned to look at her.

Not at Derek's expense, no. Derek had been right. The incision site wouldn't be visible anyway after his hair grew back in. And if he wanted to… feel empowered… What he did with his body was his prerogative.

"He said no, Mark. It's his body. He feels naked enough. Let him choose."

"But he's high. He'll regret it later."

"Mark, he's scared," Meredith said. "He thinks he's powerless. And he doesn't want you there. He doesn't—"

"I know," Mark replied, his voice low and grating. He blinked, and his eyes watered, though he kept his face a careful, expressionless mask. "I know he's scared. I was there. The last time, I was there. He wouldn't let me leave. He wouldn't. My hand. He grabbed it, and he wouldn't let go, and now I can't even stay when I beg."

"I can't really say I blame him, Mark," Meredith replied, her voice quiet.

"Addison and I, we…"

"Not that. You just don't listen to him."

"Of course, I listen to him!" Mark snapped.

"No, you don't," Meredith said. "You hear him. And that's different."

"I don't understand," he moaned gutturally. "You and him keep telling me stuff I just… I don't get it. I try but…"

"Well, figure it out, Mark. If you can't grow up enough to figure it out…" she said, letting the end of the sentence dangle in silence as she waved her hands in a helpless, frustrated gesture. Mark was painfully dense at times. She left him standing behind her, peering at her with a pleading sort of confusion as she walked down the hall toward the elevator. She sighed. She hoped Mark wouldn't try to scrub in. He looked like he'd at least thought twice.

She didn't know how she would possibly make it through the next set of slow-moving hours.

It had only been five minutes, and already the worry bit down deep like a hungry predator sinking its teeth into a meaty carcass.

She peered at her engagement ring, making no attempt to hide it as she swept her hand up to her face. She smiled at it, sighing as it caught the dim lights of the hallway and reflected them back in greater splendor. People loitering about, her co-workers, at least, stared openly at the flashy, sparkly thing. Whispers began. The whole hospital would know. Soon. Whoever Debbie didn't reach first, the torrent of gossip from this particular sighting would sweep across the ranks like a rapid brushfire.

It didn't matter. It felt good to finally shout about it, even though she wasn't opening her mouth.

She stared at the ring. She was engaged!

Everything would be fine. And then she and Derek would get married.

She hit the button on the elevator.

It was fine. So was Derek. And so was she.


	38. Chapter 36

**Author's Notes: Well, if the last two parts haven't cemented for you why I absolutely had to do this Derek-needs-surgery storyline, hopefully this one will do it :) These last three chapters have been FUN for me. So much juicy character-analysis goodness! My sandbox is a very fun place for me right now. I really hope you enjoy this, but if you don't, of course I'm always open to suggestions! I hope to have Part 37 up on Friday night if my poor Super Special Beta Reader isn't dead yet from the text overload. My chapters seem to be getting longer and longer on average, lol. **

* * *

Meredith called Ellen while she was still clinging to the strange numbness. While smiling at her shiny ring and saying everything would be fine was still working. Mostly. It was still working, though the façade had begun to crack. It had been thirty minutes since they'd wheeled him away.

Derek, most likely, hadn't even been put under yet, most likely was still babbling to the scrub nurses, high, not caring that he didn't care they were wheeling him into the bright, sterile, austere OR 2. _Can you put my ex-hair in a bag after you shave it off? Mere wants it._ With a goofy smile and floppy limbs, he'd watch the scenery passing by and probably wouldn't really think much about it beyond simple thoughts.

Bright lights. They hurt my eyes. People are staring at me. Lots of masked faces. They're lifting me onto a table. Sterilizing the razor. Anesthesiologist's eyes are crinkling. I should smile back. Why? Do I care?

She shook her head, trying not to worry. Trying not to focus on it. Her watch came up to her face in a spastic, habitual motion before she could stop herself. Pass the time. Pass the time. Was time passing? Her watch. Thirty-three minutes. They had to be starting… Stop. Stop it. Stop thinking about…

Meredith had sat down in an unpopulated area of the waiting room and dialed the number saved in Derek's contact list, saved on the phone she'd used to take the porny pictures of herself. She hadn't yet gotten around to putting the number in her own phone. It'd been barely more than four days since she'd left Connecticut. She'd assumed she'd have more time to start acclimating to the whole actively having a family thing.

She'd assumed.

A cheerful hello was what finally forced her from her ominous musing, if only for a moment.

"Hi…" Meredith said, hesitant, unsure as she sifted through the fog that held her in its grip. Fine. All fine. Everything. Peachy. Derek wasn't lying cold and alone in a sea of people, practically naked on some gurney while they-- "Ellen?"

_Breathe deep, Dr. Shepherd. Think about something happy._

She imagined his eyelids drooping as they pushed the mask over his face. He'd smile. Because the gas was a sort of giddy thing, and the drugs already crippling him made him not really know any better. She imagined him trying to think of something, only to have it all fade away into an inkblot. The sounds would be the last to go, but the descent into silence would be quick. Seconds. Out. And Derek would be asleep.

Derek would be gone.

Blink, and she was back in the waiting room, clutching Derek's phone, and everything started to crumble. Her breaths sharpened. The room fuzzed as her eyes watered. But, still, she sat there, fine. Everything would be fine.

Fine.

Ellen paused for a heartbeat, just one thump-thump that rattled in Meredith's head, before she answered Meredith's wispy greeting with a warm, "Meredith! Hello, dear. I hadn't expected to hear from you so soon."

Meredith blinked at that, and were she not sort of vibrating underneath the dull hum of shock, finefinefine, she might have noted that Ellen had quantified her statement with the words so soon. And, were she not in that shivery shock, Meredith might have smiled, realized she really had integrated into Derek's family. Somehow. Discounting the hodgepodge she'd built from the Seattle Grace interns, Derek's family was her first family that didn't suck. Her first family that actually expected her to communicate with them on a regular basis. Her first family that she would look forward to communicating with on a regular basis. But Ellen spoke onward when Meredith didn't answer, leaving the words behind in a muddle of other subjects obviously meant to fill the strange gap Meredith was leaving.

"How are you doing? Is it official yet? I'd love to hear the story! Der is a hopeless romantic when he puts his mind to it. It's just that sometimes he gets so excited that he trips all over his plans."

Meredith blinked again.

It was when, to fill the silence, Ellen followed with a hesitant, cautious, "I hope Derek is feeling better?" that Meredith had finally snapped like a twig and started to cry into the phone.

_He'll be fine, dear. I'm sure of it._

"Derek's in surgery," she said between pants. "He… asked me to call."

The razor would whir when they turned it on, lowering in pitch as it connected with something to cut. They would start on the left side of his head and slide it back from his face to the nape of his neck. Quick. Sweeping, arcing, repeated motions until they worked their way around to the right side. She'd seen it done. Next would come the disinfectant after they had cleared his beautiful curls away. Betadine. Discolored. Brown. Cold. Sort of like rusty, old blood. They'd tilt his face from side to side to get at him, all angles, and he'd offer no resistance.

"What's wrong?" Ellen said in an innocent, confused way that carried her bewilderment across the continent to Meredith's right ear. Ellen didn't understand. Why would she have understood? Derek was a surgeon. Derek was always in surgery.

They'd put the Foley catheter in next. They'd lift his gown away, show him to everyone in the room. And the endotracheal tube. They'd probably do that at the same time. To keep his airway open. Just tilt his head back, pry his unresisting mouth open, shove a laryngoscope back into his throat, and then the plastic tube would slide down, bend in the direction the scope commanded it to go, push deep into his airway, and he'd be...

At their mercy.

"He's having a craniotomy," Meredith said, wiping at her face, trying to stop, stop, stop and behave like a rational adult. Ellen gasped as the word having, not doing, settled into the vague hiss of static on the line like a louder searing brand. Having. Having. Having. "Brain surgery. He wanted me to call you. He didn't have time. We just… found out. About two hours ago."

They'd pull his body back. His body. To rest on the horseshoe-shaped headrest that would keep his head immobile. They'd cover him with tarps. For sterility. But the piling barriers would also make it harder to remember he was Derek.

Derek Shepherd.

Her fiancé.

"Brain… That's…" Ellen said, like a startled bird, chirp, before her voice fell into a deep well of silence. For a space of moments, she breathed heavily into the phone, and Meredith had to pull the phone away. "Not an aneurysm?"

Meredith's breath caught on Ellen's quiet, hopeless little words.

_What happened to your dad?_

_Ruptured brain aneurysm. One minute he was fine, and the next…_

And she realized. She wasn't going to get any reassurance. She wasn't going to get a virtual hug or an it'll be all right. Not from Ellen. Not this time. Ellen had clocked in her mothering time on the Tuesday before, when he'd needed the hospital trip then.

Meredith swallowed everything back into a deep, dark, closed-off pit. Surgeon-in-a-box. She still hadn't mastered it, couldn't do it half as well as some. Cristina. Derek. Dr. Bailey. She took a breath, flattened herself against the fake calm like a tide crawling up a beach, even as everything had threatened to claw loose and suck her into a torrent of tears again.

His hand. The anesthesiologist would keep it in sight. Coloring of the skin underneath the fingernails was important. She'd always loved Derek's hands. Dr. Weller would still be able to see Derek's hand as he pulled the scalpel down over the newly shaven skin.

Box. Box. Think box. Duct tape. Packed. Surgeon-in-a-box. Surgeon via FedEx. Becalmed.

"No, not like that," Meredith explained, calm, collected, hanging on by the barest sinew. She gripped the phone with such ferocity her fingers started to ache. The room fuzzed out as she forced herself away from sobbing by blotting out the necessity of breathing from her head. "When he hit his head on the steering wheel, he tore some veins connecting his…" Arachnoid mater and dura mater… "The area between his skull and his brain. And it's been bleeding and clotting on and off since the accident. There's not enough room in his skull for everything, and it's… The surgery is to get rid of the stuff that shouldn't be there. It's… serious. But, Ellen, we got to it early enough that he should… be fine." And they were getting married. He had to be fine. She'd proposed. She didn't do things like proposing. She didn't… She…

They were getting married.

Surgeon-in-a-box threatened to break and spill out through the seams.

"I'm packing," Ellen said softly. "He's… I'm. Packing. Brain surgery? How long does that? How… Does…"

The rest of the phone call was a barely coherent blur, a test to see how well Meredith could manage to sound even just a speck of fine when she was falling apart. Hours, she said into the whirl. The whirl where all she could hear was the whine of a neurosurgical drill, and all she could see was his hand, just his hand peeking out from underneath the tarps. Not fine. This was not fine. He'd be in intensive care for at least a day, she said. Five days in the hospital, at least. For six to eight weeks after that, he'd feel fatigued and unhealthy.

Ellen was distraught. Brain. Brain surgery, she kept saying.

_What if there is? Brain damage, I mean._

It was such a distant reaction from the calm she'd displayed throughout the week before. She'd focused. Before. On the brain injury. But she hadn't been overwhelmed with it. Perhaps she hadn't been willing to submit to panic until it had been definitively announced. And it never had been. The worry had collapsed and disappeared into the moment when Dr. Zalkind had said it was a concussion.

A concussion was easy to sweep away as a minor injury, easy to sweep away as a head injury without really realizing that it was, at the core, a brain injury. Waiting for Derek in the waiting room at Sharon Hospital had been about the tension of not knowing, of wondering whether Derek would be all right. Now, it was about whether they could fix him from not being all right. Fix. Damage already done.

Brain. Brain surgery.

Damage done. Could get worse.

The why of her reaction really didn't matter. Ellen was distraught. It was a reality Meredith somehow hadn't expected. The woman had been so calm and supportive before. And, now? Now… Meredith felt helpless to offer any sort of comfort beyond the breathless assurance that, "He'll be fine. He'll be fine. He'll be fine." And even as she said the words, she started to cry harder. Because, deep down in the darkest pit of herself, she worried. Not fine. Not fine at all.

Denial, finefinefine, offered nothing comforting to untwist her jumbled daymare. It didn't blot away the horrible suspicion that he would be there somewhere. Somewhere underneath the tarps. He would be so scared. Somewhere. Inside. Where he couldn't do anything but be scared. Because the rest of him would be under anesthesia, cut open with a drill.

A drill.

A freaking drill.

Not fine.

She worried that she was speaking nothing but lies. Because Derek was a pale hand in OR 2, and he had no voice. He had no power. And he was hurt. Really, truly hurt. And he might die. He very possibly might die. Or he might wake up broken.

When Ellen mentioned calling his sisters, somewhere in the tangle of their collective sobs and Meredith's guilt-ridden consoling – Lies! -- Meredith felt even worse. Because she should have offered to do it. She should have. But suddenly, she just couldn't. She couldn't break the news to four more people who loved him. She was barely dealing with Ellen. Barely dealing. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She was being irrational. Derek wasn't afraid. He was unconscious. He'd wake up after hours and wonder why the hole in his life seemed like the barest slice of a moment.

The whole phone call with Ellen was proving to her what a razor sharp line she walked. It cut the soles of her feet down to the bone. She could offer to support Derek all she wanted. She could offer to be there. She could call his mother. She could. But she couldn't. She couldn't pretend she was fine, or that it'd be fine, or that he'd be fine.

Because he was her Derek, and he was having brain surgery. And nothing about brain surgery was okay.

Everything around her cracked like the fake slice of land behind a broken mirror as she hung up the phone, and she started wandering aimlessly, not really paying attention to where her feet were taking her. People congratulated her here and there, a scattershot of voices in the din, but the words felt hollow to her ears. Hollow, wrong, not fine. She couldn't get married if he died.

Really not fine. She was.

She wandered into room 309 without thinking. Without…

"Meredith!" Susan said with a smile, looking up from her magazine as Meredith stopped three feet inside the doorframe, committed to being in the room, but not entering like she knew she was welcome, not moving, not thinking, just… There.

Meredith crossed her arms. Cold. Was it cold? Susan was sitting up in bed, looking healthy and rosy and cheerful. Recovering from her surgery. She'd probably go home in the next day. Maybe later in the evening. No heart monitor clipped her finger. No intravenous line snaked into her wrist. No medical machinery hummed. She seemed almost like she was staying at a hotel with nurses. Susan didn't look cold.

It probably wasn't really that cold.

"Thatch is out with the girls," Susan continued quickly, almost reflexively. It was her way of telling Meredith that the man she was scared to relate with was not there and wouldn't be there for a while. In the room sat only Susan. Meredith recognized Susan's method vaguely against the roar, roar, roaring in her head. It was the secret code that meant she didn't have to dodge into a linen closet somewhere. Which was good. Because she didn't think she could deal with Thatcher right then. She felt like a feather would crumple her into a heap, knock her over into a helpless Meredith pile of sobbing, frail little Meredith bits.

Seriousness crept across Susan's face as the last syllable skipped into silence. She glanced up and down at Meredith. Meredith, who stood there, eyes puffy, hair in stringy tendrils, face pale and blotched, makeup run away from her like Houdini out of a chained box, streaky, smeared. She hovered in the entryway, shivering, mussed, like she was some sort of disastrous surgical refugee from the bomb scare, post bomb. Meredith stared back at Susan. Stared. Stared. Stared. Because if she moved, she was going to cry. And if she cried again, she wouldn't stop. Because Derek was having brain surgery. And it was really hitting her. Hitting her like a deer on a two-lane, rural road in Connecticut at night.

And nothing was okay.

Susan's eyes narrowed. "Are you all right?"

No.

Meredith burst into tears all over again. She walked over to the bed with a stilted, hitching set of steps that seemed more like wobbling attempts at not falling over than they seemed like strides. She collapsed down onto the edge of the bed, sniffling, heaving, staring at the thermal blanket she'd just creased further into the mattress. She picked up an edge and fiddled with it, tore at it, worried at it, felt along the seam with the pads of her fingers. Because it was better than ripping at her own fingers.

"Please, don't… I know…" she managed, complete thoughts shattering like glass on tile before they hit the edges of her lips.

Susan scooted up. Meredith felt a warm hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?" Susan said quietly. Her arms came around Meredith, and Meredith felt herself being pulled back onto the bed. Pulled and enveloped in something she'd never ever had before. Not even before Ellis had been diagnosed.

_Stop sniveling, and buck up. You're my daughter. You're not a weak little girl._

Meredith curled up and sobbed.

She was a grown woman. She felt pathetic. Pathetic, and yet, "I need a mom," she whispered into Susan's nightgown. "Pl… please. I'm sorry. This isn't. I'm being." Selfish. "I just… I need. Aren't moms supposed to fix it? Please. I need it to be fixed. I need it."

Susan didn't pry. She just held Meredith, rubbed her back, whispered shushing noises.

Her breaths slowed. The moments crawled into a glacial, weary procession. People passed by Susan's door. Noisy. Tumbling bits of sound poked through Susan's continuous, soothing waves of shushing. And Meredith kept falling, falling, falling into something deep and cold and unyielding like the gelid depths of the Sound. She wondered if they had drilled his skull open yet, or if they were still making holes, or if they'd even started that part yet at all. She wondered if some part of him, somewhere deeply entrenched in the soul that always twinkled in his eyes, was awake and terrified, even though it was a ridiculous notion. Or was it? She'd had a conversation over her corpse with Denny and Doc and… others. Was being unconscious truly so different? She wondered if she'd said, "I love you," enough to make a difference if it came down to a moment. If it came down to a gavel fall of decision. If there was a choice. She wondered. Would his dad be a bridge like her mother had been?

Code Blue!

Footsteps crunched up into a hurtling swarm of tapping, slamming, shuffling. Past the door, the herd of nurses and doctors thundered, down the hall, crash cart rumbling and buried somewhere in the crush of them. Meredith flinched as she heard the thump of electricity jolting through a maybe-corpse just a few rooms down. She buried her nose into Susan's nightgown, and Susan let her. Just held her.

Not Derek. Not Derek. Not Derek. Derek was nowhere near.

Please, be okay, she pleaded.

I need.

Palms slid up and down her back, rustling softly in the bubble of silence in the room. Not like Derek did it. But… Shushing laved her ears like the roll and hiss of calming waves when she went to the beach to read in a lawn chair under the beat of sunshine. Not like Derek did it. But… Fingers stroked her hair and the tickle of her follicles shifting in their tangled jumble sent a warm, numb drawl of relaxing sensation down her nerve tips. Not like Derek did it. But…

Perfect in its own way.

The horrid tension unwound itself from her bones and her muscles until all that was left of her grief were the spasms of crying, which died out moments after. Sobbing reduced to shaky breaths and then to sighs and then to nothing but rasping things that kept her conscious in the lull. When Meredith finally sat up, pulled back, and began to wipe at her burning, stinging, itchy eyes, she managed a low, exhausted, throaty, "Thank you." It didn't feel like enough. It didn't feel like anything.

Selfish.

Susan smiled. "Do you want to talk about it? Or have I fulfilled my motherly duties?"

Meredith sniffled and shook her head. No talking. Please. And yet she couldn't get her mind away from him. "I proposed. It's official. I'm wearing a ring," she said, thrusting her hand out for Susan to see. She couldn't hold her hand still. It shook in the air like she'd sucked down one too many Jolt colas and hadn't come off the caffeine high yet. Except it was something else. Something deep and churning and wrenching. Definitely not a high. She bit her lip.

Susan reached out and grasped her hand, warm, calming, and the shaking stilled with the new support to brace the limb in place. "Congratulations," Susan said softly. Her voice hitched on a syllable that didn't mean a thing, as if she were debating. Press or don't press. Press or don't press. She sighed. "Meredith… Tell me what's wrong… You were so happy on Sunday."

Meredith breathed softly. Tell her. Tell her. Just get it out. Pull the knife out of the sucking wound and jab it in again. Maybe it would hurt less the second time with the second mom.

"I…" she said, stumbling on the word and giving up when nothing else came after it.

"Would you like to come to dinner tomorrow?" Susan prodded. "Thatch is taking me home tonight. I think I can have something guest-worthy ready by then. The girls will be out. It would just be us. I'll even make Thatcher leave, if you want."

Meredith sniffed and shook her head. "I can't. I have to be here."

"I thought you'd just started your thirty-six today," Susan said, frowning. "They're making you stay an extra day?"

"Derek's sick," she whispered. The knife slipped between her ribs. "He's having surgery. I have to be here. I have to… Be here." It didn't. It didn't hurt less.

It hurt more.

And then the tears started all over again, more like an exhausted leak than the thunder burst from before. The mothering started all over again, and it was warm and loving and Meredith held onto Susan like she was the only thread attaching Meredith to life. Because she needed it. She needed to be mommed. She needed to have someone tell her Derek would be fine, someone who could tell her, even if it were a grave falsity, and still have it sound like scientific law. Derek would be fine. Not Cristina, because she'd say it with snark or sarcasm or a bitter drop of realism, and realism meant Derek would not necessarily be fine. Cristina couldn't fake the mom thing at gunpoint. Not Izzie or George. They wouldn't work. She had no idea why. They just seemed… Wrong. And Alex's internal wiring seemed to disallow any sort of sugar coating. Derek would have worked. Derek made even the worst things seem okay when he held her, and the soft, laving whispers of his voice could make her believe the sky was green or that gravity was an option. But Derek was the not fine prying open cataclysmic rifts in her composure, the not fine shredding up her heart into little, bleeding bits. And he couldn't be there for her. He had to be there for him. He had to not die. And that was a hard job. Fixing a cut open skull. Fixing a bleeding brain. Dissolving the drowning clutch of anesthesia on his central nervous system. Healing. Hard job.

She sniffled. "I'm sorry," she told Susan as the waves subsided again.

"For what?"

"I was mean to you until…" I needed this.

"Forgiven," Susan replied without hesitation. "It's what moms do."

"I'd like to do the dinner thing," Meredith said. "Maybe next week after I take Derek… home. I need… I want to try this. I do."

"All right," Susan said.

Meredith stood and brushed herself off, wiping fiercely at her eyes. "I'm going to go wait…"

"You're welcome to stay. You don't have to talk. You could just sit."

"No, no I have to… Thank you. I just… Have to…" Get books. Do something else. Move. Not think about the fact that Derek was lying on a table, bleeding, exposed, and maybe dying.

She finally did the thing she'd been trying so hard to decimate from her repertoire. She couldn't. Couldn't stop. She'd breached the threshold of the room and taken a single step beyond before Susan's calm, "Meredith?" reined her to a halt. She paused and turned, sort of like a slow-motion replay on a sports channel. Aaaaand, Meredith pauses on the brink of the end zone. Why isn't she running for the touchdown? What made her stop? She should be going, going, gone! I know, Bart. It's a shame when these athletes fuck up.

Run.

Run away.

Susan gave her a beautiful, warm, comfortable smile. "Derek will be fine," she said. "I'll call you about dinner later this week."

Meredith managed a watery smile. "Okay."

And then she left, but somehow, it wasn't fleeing anymore.

The congratulations and condolences flitting at her from all directions didn't stab at her anymore, didn't make her steps falter like she was slogging through a sucking pit of mud. She made a circuit of the surgical ward two or three times before she altered course toward the locker rooms. She pulled some of her books from her locker, grabbed a highlighter that may or may not have still been working. The moments passed, each one a small eon of its own, long enough to witness a star coalesce from nothing and die into dust.

She ended up in the gallery, which was empty. All of the ORs were still taken. The board was a wall of black, scribbly text. Derek Shepherd had been hastily markered in on the row for OR 2, for once not listed as the surgeon, but as the patient. Everyone was in surgery. Everyone except Meredith.

Izzie and George stood down below, swathed in their surgical scrubs. They hovered over an open body cavity under the instruction of one of the general surgical residents. Dr. Lu. They'd been there since before Meredith had slipped out of lab running to check on Derek the last time. The time she'd found him in the conference room, yelling at Mark.

They didn't know yet. Unless the gossip network had somehow breached the sterile barrier dividing the operating rooms from the rest of the surgical wing, which, given the fact that Nurse Debbie was the ringleader of said gossip network, was sort of possible. But Izzie caught Meredith's eye once as she looked up, and there was no wild blaming or happiness or anything cradled in the soft brown of her eyes except the usual casual airs of friendship. George looked up and quirked his eyebrows at her in a brief hello. And then they both looked back down at the bloody mess waiting for them to fix it. They didn't know.

Meredith had no idea where Alex and Cristina were. She didn't really care. They'd find her if they wanted her, and she didn't have the energy to try and beat the flow of the whispers burbling through the halls like the swell and churn of water over rocks, like rapids. Some of it was true. Some of it was pure fabrication.

I heard Dr. Grey proposed to Dr. Shepherd! True. I heard Dr. Shepherd is dying! Maybe. I heard that her ring is worth more than my car! Maybe. I heard Dr. Montgomery left town because she heard about the proposal! Fabricated. I heard they had sex on a plane! True. I heard she's doing the Chief on the side! Fabricated.

I heard, I heard, I heard.

She bowed her head into her hands and leaned her elbows onto the edges of her book in the margins on the left and right, keeping it spread against her knees, pinning it like an offending little bug. She let the diamond of her ring dig a deep, painful pit into her cheek as she grouped her fingers into fists and jammed her cheeks down onto them. She tried to read the words, but they spilled into a blurry mess that didn't make sense. The pictures blotted like colored islands dotting a sea of murky gray where the text was supposed to be. And nothing made any sense.

Nothing made any sense at all.

She didn't look up as the door opened. Someone took a step into the room, and the hairs on the back of her neck began to stand on end in a subtle whisper of foreboding. A deep, somber breath filled the silence. The presence hovered and shifted and fidgeted like someone preparing dreadful news. Meredith leaned into her hands, clutched at herself, trying not to be sick. Someone had come to find her and tell her that…

Derek.

She swallowed, still refusing to look as she felt the ominous presence slide into the seat one away from her on the left. No words. Nothing. She finally looked up and found Chief Webber easing back into a slouch. He looked at her, silent, but his face wasn't a bad news face. Just a worried one.

"How are you doing, Meredith?" he asked, his voice low and honey-rich. He pulled his palms over the gray fuzz of his hair and wrapped the motion around to pull down the flesh of his cheeks. His eyes narrowed in an understanding, pitying gaze, and it was…

Too much.

He looked…

"Seriously?" she snapped, her voice finding unexpected strength in the burbling well of anger she'd almost forgotten about in the chaos of Derek. Derek maybe dying. Derek maybe broken. "You have the nerve to ask me that now? Now, when my fiancé is… Now. Seriously?"

"I poked my head into OR 2," he said. "He's stable. Everything is going fine. They were just removing the skull flap when I left."

A vague trickle of momentary relief – Derek alive! -- drowned under the rumble roar of the tidal wave. Derek had his skull open. Guessing. She'd dealt with the guessing. The knowing. The knowing was different. Different and scary and painful. Derek was lying cold and alone on a table, exposed, vulnerable. If Dr. Weller decided in a delirious moment of whimsy that he no longer wanted to be a neurosurgeon, he could walk away, and Derek would be left behind, gaping open, bloody, and he would die. Derek. Derek had a hole in his skull. While he slept, but not really slumbered, while he was removed from the world. If Dr. Weller walked away, Derek would die. Definitively. There wouldn't be any sort of choice involved. Derek existed because Dr. Weller kept him existing. Derek was a hand, poking out from underneath a tarp. Derek was a body, nearly naked underneath the covers, tubes and wires dictating his life for him. Derek was living, but he was trapped in his mortal fear.

And the Chief had intruded. The Chief. A general surgeon. A surgeon who operated on livers and intestines and stomachs, on pancreases and on other things. Organs and body parts that had nothing to do with an open skull. Nothing to do with brains. The Chief had had no reason to be in that room. The room where Derek lay cut open. None.

A cold spear slipped down her throat, scraping, stinging, and her heart began to scream with a freezing, bitter sort of pain. A weary breath became a suppressed explosion as she held it down against her diaphragm and squeezed her lungs tight within her tiny frame. Tired, pent up rage simmered. She drew her fingers down across the pages of her book. The pads of her fingers squeaked against the filmy paper, and her knuckles turned a bloodless white.

"Why did you poke your head in at all?" she said, quiet, dangerous.

"To get an update for—"

Bad answer. You. To get an update for you, he'd been going to say. You. Meredith. Adulterous fake-child.

"He doesn't want people looking at him," she snarled before he could finish. "You're not a neurosurgeon. You don't need to be there. He doesn't want it, and there's no way you couldn't have known. He asked you to keep the interns out of it. He asked you for no gallery. He asked for a private hospital room. He refused to let Mark Sloane, the best plastic surgeon on this side of the country, close the incision for him. He didn't even want to get this done here at all. Don't tell me you didn't connect the dots. You're a surgeon. You're smart. So, spare me the updates, and leave me alone. Leave Derek alone. Just leave us alone, Chief."

He couldn't keep doing this, taking liberties, insinuating himself. Not at the expense of Derek, who, lately, seemed to be the only person who was taking hits for it. It. The thing with Ellis and the Chief. Being Ellis Grey's dirty mistress did not mean the Chief had a say in Meredith's life. She'd grown up well outside the sphere of Seattle Grace and its gossip-ridden halls. Richard Webber hadn't fought any harder for her than Thatcher had. Richard Webber had fought less. He'd actively said no and stayed with Adele. Richard Webber was not her freaking father. Not now. Not then. Not ever.

And he had to stop.

"Meredith," the Chief said, soothing, "I know you're nervous, but—"

She doubted Cristina had been similarly consoled when it had been Burke lying there. And when the intern had been George, and his dad had been the one on the table, it'd been nothing but the clinical stuff, using the very logical justification about doctor patient confidentiality. And that was all fine. Except one was not like the others. She was special.

And it sucked.

"Stop trying to be my dad!" she said, fuming, bitter, mean, nasty, angry, all sorts of ugly things. She flung her book down on the seat beside her and stood, panting. "You're not my freaking dad! I don't need coddling, and I sure as hell don't need to be patronized by the man who ruined Derek's career and screwed up the family that was supposed to be my real one. Seriously!"

The Chief blinked and swallowed. His eyes widened, and she felt a perverse sort of glee. Just because she was sweet and friendly Meredith, unassuming Meredith, the Meredith who'd just died, lost her mother, and was sad from time to time, did not mean she had no freaking teeth.

"What?" he said.

"Don't play stupid with me," she snapped. "I'm not some weak little trauma case for you to protect. You shouldn't have stuck your nose in. Chief was Derek's dream, and you spat on it just to guarantee I had a warm body in bed with me every night? Seriously? Making him choose between me and his dream job? Seriously? How the hell do you think that makes me feel? If you have to clip his wings just to get him to treat me right, I don't want him anyway. I'm an adult. I can say no. I can make my own decisions. And Derek? He's a full-grown man. He can juggle his own commitments without you as a freaking ringleader, and he can make his own choices about his love life. He can do whatever the hell he wants as long as he stays breathing. He might be an arrogant, self-loving bastard at times, but he's always been there for me when I've needed it, regardless of this stupid, life-sucking job, married or not, and he's… And now he's… Now, he might die. So, shut up. Just… Shut up, and go away. Before I say something else I won't regret."

The Chief stared at her, blinking as her rage receded to a simmer.

"Meredith," he said. "Derek withdrew himself from consideration when he met with me this morning. He's not in the running for Chief anymore."

The world stopped, and the remaining fury fell away for a moment like deadwood in a storm of wind.

"He… What?"

"He said he didn't want it anymore. He loves you, and he loves the cutting, not the paperwork, he said."

_Dreams can change. I love you, and I want you. And it was just a job._

"He," she said, her voice falling into a warble. She sniffled and drew her hands across her cheeks. The skin of her cheeks mashed up against her nose. She scraped again. Everything blurred. "Said that?"

"Yes," Chief Webber said.

Her palms came away wet and sticky. Her eyes burned. He'd told her. He'd told her she was more important than the job, but it was one thing to speculate that he didn't even want the job anymore now that he had her, and another thing entirely to hear that he'd said it out loud. To someone else.

The words bled little drops of reality that struck her skin like the spray of water from a showerhead.

Derek had given up his dream.

_I sure as hell won't be able fuck around with people's nervous systems using a knife._

_What if I'm not Head of Neurosurgery anymore, Meredith?_

Derek hadn't given up his dream. He'd changed it. Realigned it to the person he'd become when he'd left New York. The person he'd always been under the skin, the person who'd bloomed in the drizzly, Seattle air, away from the grip of the bustle, the roar, the thrill of a city that never went dark or slept. The person she'd, by a quirk of chance, gotten to know and cherish and desire and love.

_You've always seemed more to me like you're in it for the feel-good, not for the money or the clout._

He didn't want to do the managerial crap. He didn't want the bragging rights of a title. He didn't want a paycheck bursting with zeroes. He wanted love and a family. He wanted to cut. To help and fix and save like some real life super-hero, but not because it was cool, or because it made him better in the eyes of his peers, but because of the helping, the fixing, the saving. Because it made him feel whole.

Derek Shepherd was a surgeon, and after this craniotomy, he might not ever be a surgeon again. He might be damaged. He might be… unable. All he wanted to do was cut. All he wanted was Meredith. And kids. A family. And the fact that he'd come out and said so to the Chief, hours before an operation that could potentially diminish him…

_I'm supposed to be the one fixing this... I don't have this. I fix this... I can fix..._

Derek Shepherd had given up Chief.

_I said yes, right?_

Derek Shepherd had said yes.

Derek Shepherd had finally figured himself out.

"Oh," she said, her voice low and weepy, even as she laughed. Softly. Derek had figured himself out. And for a moment, just a moment, she was happy. From all the suckitude and hurt and awfulness interspersed with the perfection of the last week and a half, he'd… figured himself out. He'd figured himself out, and they were getting married.

She was engaged!

As the manic laughter died away, she collapsed back into the chair and hugged herself. The yo-yo slowed, shivered on the end of its string, and stopped in a pit far below the space she'd started in. Exhaustion pulled her into numbness. Numbness that surrendered to ache and then to sharp, throbbing pains.

It seemed wrong that all of these wonderful things could be happening on the brink of something with the potential to become so awful.

Derek might die. Derek might break.

"Well, it still gave you no right," she whispered over the lump in her throat, grating bits of razor sharp pain sliding up and down her vocal cords with each syllable. "None at all. That was his decision to make. You never should have factored into it."

"I'm sorry, Meredith."

She turned to Chief Webber and narrowed her eyes, staring angrily, tiredly, sadly at him. Her face was blotchy and red and tear-stained. She didn't care. "You're my boss. Not my dad. Act like it."

She had a family with Cristina and Izzie and George and Alex. She was inheriting a family with Derek. She was repairing a family with Susan.

Richard Webber was not her family. Richard Webber belonged to a dead woman. An idea that was gone from possibility.

He stared at her for a long moment. His hands cupped his knees and clenched, scrunching up the fabric of his scrubs. He sighed. As he stood to leave, he said quietly, heavily, as though he'd failed at something, "All right."

For a moment, he looked heartbroken, but then something shifted on his face like a gear falling into place, and he turned back into the stoic surgeon she knew he was. Surgeon-in-a-box. She had a feeling she was staring at the master. She didn't let it break her resolve. The man had had no right. No right at all. His advice had nearly backfired. Forcing Derek to choose, especially when Derek hadn't even known what he'd really wanted with his life, not in any sort of quantifiable sense… It had nearly, truly backfired. She might never have had the ring or the moments of bliss when he'd proposed or when she'd proposed. She might never have had those moments, and they might have both been miserable and still drowning in mistrust.

_It's not a mistake..._

"Chief?" she asked as he pushed open the door to the gallery. It was a whim. A whim to ask, but…

He turned to look at her. "Yes, Mered—Dr. Grey?"

"Would you have picked him? If it weren't for me?"

"If I'm your boss," he said, his tone flat and quiet, "You know I can't answer that."

She regarded him for a moment. "Okay," she said with a tiny, shivery nod. "I can live with that."

He nodded and sighed. His gaze darted to her finger for a flicker of a moment. The mask cracked just a little. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he narrowed his gaze. "Congratulations, by the way," he said. And then he was gone, and she was left again in silence.

She rubbed her thumb and forefinger up and down the bridge of her nose, sighing tiredly. She didn't even try to pick up her book again. She'd been a fool to think she could study while she waited. And staring at Izzie and George, both arm deep in blood and gore, just made her think of Derek all alone and maybe dying. She gathered up her things and wandered again.

One lap. Two laps. Three laps. Four laps.

Congratulations! I'm so sorry! Congratulations! He'll be fine! Congratulations! We're all rooting for him…

She managed to pick at some food after ordering in the cafeteria with an incoherent mumble. The incoherent mumble resulted in a sandwich that tasted dry and crumby and pasty like something days old and sun-baked. But, at least it calmed some of the pang-filled fluttering in her gut. She went back to wandering as the last swallow settled.

Congratulations and condolences swarmed her from all sides as the gossip continued leaking through the halls. The whirl of words became too much, and she slowly gravitated toward the quiet of their basement hallway. Hers and Alex's and Izzie's and George's and Cristina's. Her family's.

She collapsed onto the empty gurney that was always there and sighed, glancing at her watch. Pass the time. Pass the time. Was time passing? Three hours. Three whole hours. How had it only been three hours?

She lay there, her arm draped over the side of the bed, dangling in a state of misery. She stared at the blur. Tired aching hung behind her eyes like a living, breathing pulse. Sleep, sleep, sleep, but sleeping would never happen. She couldn't. She had to be there. Not off in a fantasy of dreaming. She had to be there when they brought news. Good or bad. Bad. Probably bad. What was she going to do if it was bad?

The double doors to the hallway opened with a thunderous, vibrating thud, and Cristina huffed into the blurry void in front of Meredith. The blue of her scrubs hazed Meredith's view with a sky-colored cloud, blotting out the world like a strange new blindness. Blue. Blue. Blue. Or was it technically cerulean? Cornflower? Or should she simply classify it as the blue that Derek didn't like?

Was time passing?

Meredith blinked, resisting the urge, for once, to pull her watch up again. Instead she continued lying limply, lifeless, tired on the gurney. An exhausted sprawl of limbs and other things.

"Explain to me why I heard from Nurse Olivia that you're engaged to McDreamy," Cristina said, her arms folding over her chest in a standoffish, annoyed pose.

"Because I am?" Meredith said. She flopped her hand up so Cristina could see the ring. It was the only response she could formulate. The only thing. Her brain suddenly seemed stir-fried. Battered. Dissolved into a cluster of neurons, discordant, miscommunicating, stupid, speaking Greek. And she had neither the burbling simmer of fight nor even the desire to fight right then. Not with Cristina, anyway. Not even guilt sang somewhere deep within, festering. She didn't feel the urge to apologize for something she wasn't even sure she was sorry for. The not telling thing. Was she sorry? No.

Cristina's gaze flicked to the ring that encircled Meredith's dangling ring finger and then back to Meredith's blotchy, crying face. Her eyes widened, as if she almost hadn't expected it to be true, and now the incontrovertible fact of the sparkly diamond had sent her over the cliff of doubt, and falling into… certainty. Meredith rolled onto her back and scraped her hands down her face, trying to clear the haze as Cristina repeated, harsher, more grating and snippy, "Explain to me why I heard from **Syph Nurse** that you're engaged to McDreamy."

"Cristina," Meredith sighed. "He's in surgery right now. He might die. Or get broken. Or… He's all alone. I had to call his mother and tell her… I had to… Can we not… Can we not do this right now? I'm barely…"

Cristina sat down on the edge of the gurney with a jerky huff. The mattress dipped. Her arms re-folded. "I knew something happened on that stupid McFamily vacation. I knew it."

"Cristina…"

Cristina rolled her eyes. "It's a craniotomy for a subacute hematoma almost slow enough to be chronic. He'll be fine."

"Cristina," Meredith said as she pushed herself back up into a sitting position. She resettled next to her friend and wilted into a slouch. Their shoulders bumped. Cristina didn't prickle and shy away. She sat. Still. Meredith continued, "He could stroke out. Dr. Weller could give him permanent brain damage if he nicks something he's not supposed to nick. Derek might develop post-op epilepsy. Mortality rates for craniotomies here at Seattle Grace are…" Real. Numbers that were whole and then some, not a sliver of a percentage with a lot of leading zeroes. But she couldn't say it. "I don't care if the bleed is slower than toothpaste spit. It's his skull. They're drilling open his skull, and he… He could… There're so many things that could go wrong, I don't even want to… He could…"

Die. Break. Die. Break.

"He'll be all right, Meredith," Cristina said. Meredith had been right. Cristina couldn't do the mom thing at gunpoint. She said it soft and quiet and serious. But it didn't work right. Not this time. Not when Cristina couldn't argue with science that he was fine. Derek was already broken. Cristina couldn't argue him fine like she had with the concussion.

Meredith sighed. The hot, stinging tears had started again at some point. She'd lost track of how many freaking times she'd cried that day. How many times she'd cried in the last three hours. She couldn't do it anymore. She was broken. Whatever turned the faucets on and off was busted. Shattered. She sat there, leaking, not caring that she was leaking anymore. At least with Cristina, she didn't have to care that she was leaking, and she could just let herself. Cry. Get it out.

"What if he's not fine?" Meredith said as she wiped at her eyes. "What'll I do if he's not? I just figured out how much I need him, and he's…"

Cristina stared at her. "Why didn't you tell me, Meredith?"

"I just proposed less than four hours ago," Meredith replied. Bitterness swept down her throat. Why couldn't Cristina ever be… Why couldn't she just… "Derek is potentially dying, and I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to stay afloat for him, and I just can't keep it up when he's not here to see it. I can't not freak out right now. So, pardon me if I didn't run and tell you first thing while I'm busy trying not to drown all over again."

"I don't buy it," Cristina said.

"Buy it? Buy what?" Meredith asked. "That I'm flipping out because the man I'm supposed to marry might flat line alone, exposed, and cut up on a gurney somewhere? Seriously? Why do you hate him so much? Please, Cristina, I don't need your human cactus routine right now. I can't handle it, okay? I love you, but I can't. I can't do it. Please. Please, just…" She sighed and sniffled.

Cristina's eyes widened. She looked… Stricken. Almost regretful. "I meant I don't buy that you just got engaged. You've been acting weird all week. I didn't mean…"

Meredith stared at Cristina through the wall of tears. The double doors to the hallway slammed open and Meredith stiffened into a tense pile of bones and aching muscles. A disheveled orderly shuffled through, staring at them oddly, but he moved quickly past them in a hurried tangle of movement. His footsteps tapped down the hallway, echoing until he rounded the corner, and his intrusion muffled into silence.

Meredith bit a sob into tiny pieces and wilted again. She couldn't… She glanced at her watch. Was time passing? Yes.

A warm hand clasped around her shoulder, and Cristina pulled Meredith down against her soft, clean scrubs in a light embrace. "This isn't hugging," Cristina said. "Just so you know."

"Okay," Meredith replied, her voice scratchy, sandy, a desert looking for an oasis. She sniffled, and Cristina let her cry for a long time. Cristina sat there, holding her. She didn't caress or comfort like Susan had, or like Derek often did. She just held on. But from Cristina, that was like an armistice in the middle of World War Three, and Meredith took it for what it was.

Comfort.

And maybe she wasn't sorry. Maybe she wasn't, but she did owe Cristina an explanation. Something. Because she hadn't done the not telling thing out of spite. She hadn't. And, now, Cristina was not-hugging her anyway, despite what the not telling thing obviously looked like to her -- a broken bond or something.

"You're not happy, Cristina," Meredith whispered. "And it just felt wrong to shove it in your face that I'm not miserable like you are. Or, at least, I wasn't miserable. Now, I'm just trying not to throw up. I can't…"

Cristina sighed. "I'm not miserable."

"You could have fooled me."

"I'm not," Cristina said. "When are you going to get married?"

"I don't know," Meredith said. A sigh tumbled off her lips, and she slumped as the world blurred again. Her cheeks hurt from all the rubbing and the salty smears her hands had left behind. "I just want him to not die and not break right now. Not dying would be good. Not breaking would be… good."

The silence in the hallway burgeoned into a roaring, rushing thing. So loud. Visions of Derek, a lonely hand sticking out from underneath a sea of tarps and plastic, drifted in her brain like dead bits of things, flotsam, floating. Scary. Closing her eyes didn't seem to help. It just made the pictures brighter. How long would Dr. Weller try if he had a flat line? Certainly not three hours. Was twenty minutes enough to choose? Would there even be a choice?

"What do you mean you don't know?" Cristina asked softly, just when Meredith had begun to think Derek's death would strangle her. Even if he didn't actually die.

"We're just… engaged," Meredith said. Her fingers clutched at her ring. The setting dug into her skin like rocky sand on bare skin. "No date set or anything."

"But…" Cristina replied, her voice wandering off into silence, as if she didn't, couldn't understand the concept. Engaged without a definitively marked end. Engaged without ultimatums. Engaged without anything but a promise that eventually, there would be something more permanent in place. Eventually. When things lined up right, and everything seemed like it needed to move forward again on its own, rather than being pushed and shoved and forced like a square peg into a round hole.

"It doesn't have to be all give, give, give, Cristina. You can take. Derek's willing to wait until I'm ready, and I'm just not ready yet."

"Well, I'm ready," Cristina insisted. "That's why I have a date set."

"If you're ready, then why are you so unhappy?"

"I'm not unhappy. I'm…"

"What?" Meredith prodded.

"Just…" Cristina stuttered. Her voice halted, and she uncharacteristically filled the air with flat, dead noise while her brain ran around looking for the next word she wanted. She cut off with a sad-sounding, sighing, defeated, "Not thrilled."

Meredith turned to stare at her friend, and thoughts of Derek dying, being alone, dying and being alone, dying and being alone and cut up and bleeding faded into a whining background noise, like the smaller picture-in-a-picture on a television, one of those huge flat ones with all of those features for people even more scatterbrained and mind-wandering than she was. She wiped her eyes, clearing the fresh leakage away, and sniffled, trying to look at the big picture, trying to ignore the clawing worry and fear and pain for a minute. Trying to absorb Cristina's problems. It helped to not think of Derek in the now sense. And Cristina needed… Cristina was… Cristina's eyes were squinty with not-tears. Because Cristina wouldn't ever cry unless she really, really meant it. She was slumped and sighing, but not depressed. Because Cristina wouldn't ever show that she was depressed unless she really, really meant it.

Except she was showing those things, even though Meredith was fairly certain they weren't overwhelming, really, really meant it sorts of feelings. In that vulnerable moment, she was showing Meredith she had the same, trembling maybe-feelings as everyone else when things weren't drowning in a pit of bitter angst or rocketing into a cloud of giddy. She had the uncertain, half-hearted in-betweens, too. The moment would live for Meredith, etched in permanent memory. Cristina's mask had failed, cracked, outright broken. Or was it an intentional thing? A window. Beyond the cactus bit resided someone who felt and loved and lived with little swings of emotion just like everyone else. She was just exceptionally good at theatrics and denial. Was it that? Maybe. Probably.

Yes.

And Meredith found that she had no idea what to do. Her experience with Derek was so different than what Cristina seemed to have with Burke. Derek wanted things, but he'd made it quite clear he was absolutely unwilling to force Meredith into anything. He wanted things, but he wanted her to want them, too. He even offered concessions. Hotdogs and things. Cristina didn't seem to be getting any hotdogs at all. Literal hotdogs. Not… Yeah. Not that.

"Cristina, isn't being thrilled sort of the whole point?" Meredith began hesitantly. "We're engaged. It's… It's freaking mind-bending. And strange. And new. But… It's not bad."

Cristina chirped with wry, grating laughter. "You giving me relationship advice. You."

_She's got my McDreamy. And my McDog. She's got my McLife._

"Yes, Cristina. I'm worried about you. And now that I actually have a basis for comparison, I just… I think being engaged is supposed to be… happy. Mostly."

Except for moments like this one.

"You're acting like a pod person," Cristina said, half-hearted, weary. She tore her fingers through her hair and sighed, long and low. The rustle of fabric slid low and quiet through the air as she shifted.

"No, I'm acting like me," Meredith said. "Me that, for once, isn't miserable. But me. Has Burke given you an inch on anything?"

"Of course, he has. He--"

"How many people will be at the wedding?"

Cristina looked down at the floor. "I don't know. A few."

"I thought you wanted just the four of us at city hall," Meredith replied. "You, me, Burke, and Derek."

Cristina scowled. It was a dark, hating, bitter look. "Yeah, well, Burke's mother got involved."

"What does Burke's mother have to do with you and Burke?"

"Look, Meredith," Cristina snapped, suddenly hostile underneath the storm of poke, poke, poking. "I'm trying, here. Stop…"

"Stop what? Pointing out that maybe there's something wrong?"

"Look," Cristina snapped, and the cactus shell began to prickle. "Just because you've found momentary bliss with your temporarily re-McDreamied McDreamy doesn't mean your life is suddenly the peg by which all others should be measured, and it certainly doesn't mean my fiancé should suddenly be perfect. McDreamy is an ass, not a saint. I remember when he ripped your heart out, Mere. Do you? And is he even technically McDreamy without the hair? Seriously?"

Silence stretched between them. Meredith swallowed, wiped her face. She'd known. Deep. Back on the rear shelves of her brain. The dusty ones she didn't often use. Somewhere, she'd known that Cristina didn't like Derek. Not really before the Addison disaster. And she'd certainly never recovered from that. Cristina was tolerant. Tolerant, and that was it. Because that's what people did for their persons, even when they were certain grave mistakes were being made.

Cristina was tolerant. Cristina had been there. Been there when Derek hadn't been, at least not in the openly relationshipped sense. Been there when Derek had been the married McBastard who had left Meredith for his ex-wife, his ex-wife who he hated, or at least didn't love anymore. Cristina had been there when Meredith had debated. Finn or Derek. Finn or Derek. Back when Finn had seemed stable and healthy and safe to Derek's unproven and painful and dangerous. Cristina had been there through it all. Not necessarily unjudging, but always there. Tolerating. Cristina was her person. She was Meredith's person but… She was stagnant. Unforgiving.

"Yes, Cristina, he hurt me," Meredith said. "When you love someone, you can get hurt. But hurt isn't always something that sticks. Love is enough to fix a lot of things, too."

Cristina stared at the floor and didn't answer.

"And, Cristina," Meredith added. "If you say one word to him about his hair when he gets out of surgery, my person or not, I will hurt you. I will hurt you, Cristina. He's my person. You're my person. But… He's my other person. And he's sick. And he's scared. And I don't know what to do for him. But I can at least freaking keep him from being teased."

Cristina looked up. Her eyes widened. "You'd ask him to lug a corpse with you?"

Meredith blinked. "What?"

"If you murdered someone, you'd ask him to help?"

"That'd be… breaking the rules."

"You and Derek have rules about corpse dragging?"

"No," Meredith said. "No, I meant about the murder. Murder is wrong."

"Well, yeah, Meredith," Cristina replied, shrugging. "It's murder."

"It's just…" Meredith began, pausing. Would she really ask Derek to help her lug a body? And when the hell would she ever have a body to lug? Even rhetorically, it was hard to get in the right mindset to debate the complexities of who she'd ask to be her accomplice in corpse lugging, because that required murder. Taking somebody's life. On purpose. She was a surgeon. She fixed life. She was a returned-from-the-dead surgeon. She fixed life, and she valued it. Immensely. Why the hell would she murder someone? And, would this be a crime of passion, or would it be planned? And… This was ludicrous.

Would she ask Derek to help her lug a body? A body that was dead because she'd killed the owner? She'd certainly ask Cristina first. Cristina wouldn't ask any questions. She'd do the person-y tolerating thing. But the question was about Derek.

"Derek's got serious moral… things. Moral things. Morals. I…" she mused.

She liked to think that she loved Derek unconditionally. Hell, she knew she loved him with minimal conditions already. He'd dumped her for his wife. His wife. And they'd managed to come back from that. Murder, though? That was a bit… Different. Not a personal betrayal, but a betrayal of the person she thought he was. He wouldn't kill anyone. Not ever. But… if he did. If he somehow did. If he somehow snapped and lost his temper and just… Poof. Killed someone. If Derek had a body lying on the floor, and he was crying… She was certain he'd be the kind of person who would cry over that sort of thing. If he was standing over a body, crying, wondering what the hell to do with it, distraught, she'd… She'd want to help. Maybe it would break something. Break something in their relationship. Because he would have killed someone, and that just wasn't Derek. But she would want to be there, fighting like hell to keep the break from happening. The smallest sliver of her, the very largest piece of herself that could actually believe she was capable of killing another human being on purpose, wanted to believe he'd be the same way. He'd want to be there.

"Yeah," she said. "Maybe not before I asked you. But, yeah, I'd ask him to help. Unless it's sometime in the next few weeks. He'll have weight restrictions on what he can lift, and I wouldn't want—"

"I wouldn't ask Burke," Cristina said, interrupting. "Not second, third, or ever."

Meredith shrugged. "Two weeks ago, I probably wouldn't have asked Derek."

The double doors yawned open, foreboding, slow, and the motion bulged with awful promises. A nurse she didn't recognize walked through. The nurse smiled and said a friendly, hesitant hello before she pattered down the hallway, much like the orderly had done. And then she was gone.

Meredith wilted, a sobbing sigh bursting from deep within her gut. She wished it would end. She wished fate would make up its freaking mind before she lost hers. Cristina pulled Meredith up against her shoulder again, and they sat, weary and silent for a long crawl of moments.

"It hurt," Cristina confessed. "It really hurt when I thought I couldn't go forward, and he refused to be kind, rewind. I know we have something. It wouldn't have hurt if we didn't. I…"

Meredith wiped away the renewed tears, blinking, blinking, sniffling. "Then you have a good start, Cristina, but…"

Cristina sighed. Her fingers clutched Meredith tightly. Not a hug. Just an absent… unconscious sort of pleading. "What the hell did you do over vacation that made you so sure?" And how do I do it, too? The second question hung unspoken in the air.

"I don't know," Meredith replied. "We grew up? I guess. I don't… know. It's like… knitting. Sort of."

Cristina quirked an eyebrow. "Knitting," she said, disbelief flattening her tone. "Knitting made you marriage-happy?"

"Yeah," Meredith said. "We finished seventy rows, only to realize the middle thirty were a freaking mess of suck. So, we yanked them out and re-stitched. We didn't throw anything away, and the thread might still be a little kinked from before, but we made something new with it. New and… less tangly. I think." She sighed. "Sorry, that was pretty lame. I can't do the poet thing very well."

_Dat's ma goil. Always expressin' hoiself like a poet._

"When Burke was shot… I waited until he was all right to stay with him. I was… I don't do this stuff well, Meredith. And you? You're sitting here with a ring on your finger..." While Derek was in the OR possibly dying.

Cristina left the words unsaid, but they hung there in the air like smog, dirty, coiling, choking. Meredith blinked.

"I needed to do it," Meredith whispered. "If I hadn't done it and he ends up dying, I… I don't know. I'm so…" Her voice trailed away. So… What? So scared, twisted, terrified, anxious? Confident, happy, loved, in love? She began to wonder if the reason she felt so sick was because her brain couldn't make up its goddamned mind. I'm engaged! Derek's sick. Not meshable.

"I won't make fun of his hair," Cristina murmured.

"Thank you," Meredith said, sighing. The crumpling pain that curled her shoulders over and made her wilt lessened, just a little. "I know you never really liked him."

"You're my person, Mere," Cristina said. "My only person. And he hurt you. Badly."

"He did," Meredith agreed.

"He'll be okay, Mere," Cristina said, and Meredith felt a fuzzy warmth seeping down into her core. The relief that the words brought was like finding out this really **had** been a bad dream brought on by chicken marsala, or perhaps indigestion. Almost as good, anyway. Derek would be okay. Cristina meant it. If she was lying, she hid the deception under a veil of secrecy so opaque and thick that a jackhammer couldn't have torn through on the highest, most jackhammery setting. Perhaps, Cristina wasn't so bad at the mom thing after all. Or maybe it was just the person thing. The unconditional love thing.

Meredith sighed. "You should ask him," she said. "Ask Burke for the city hall wedding with just us four. It's what you want."

"I…"

"Derek said I could have a reception banquet with hotdogs if I wanted."

"Isn't he some sort of health nut?"

Meredith sniffled, couldn't help the smallish whuff of laughter, even as a fresh batch of tears spilled down. "Yeah," she said as she wiped her face. "He is."

Cristina looked at her. "I'm not good at this, Mere…"

"It doesn't mean you have to let him walk on you," Meredith said. "You're Cristina. You take crap from no one. Believe me. I know."

_Whatever. Everybody has problems. Now, get your ass out of bed, and get to work! _

Cristina sent a woeful, racking sigh tumbling out of her mouth. Her body heaved with it. And then her whole frame crumpled. "I take crap from Burke."

"That's okay," Meredith said. "As long as he takes crap from you, too."

Cristina raised an eyebrow. "McDreamy dumps you for his wife, and you get hotdogs at your wedding in exchange. You call that even?"

"It's not about getting even," Meredith said. "It's about being equal."

"Okay, you really are a pod person, Meredith. What the hell?"

"It's just some stuff I figured out."

"Right," Cristina replied. But it wasn't a snapping word or a biting one. It was offhanded. Ponderous. Breathy.

Meredith hoped Cristina would be okay. But if she wasn't, if she did the big wedding thing with a huge crowd in a dress because Burke had made her, Meredith would do the person thing. She'd tolerate and be there. Not necessarily unjudging. But tolerating.

They sat there for a long time. She didn't ask Cristina why she wasn't working, wasn't wrist deep next to Burke repairing torn valves and other things. She didn't dare. She let the moments pass in silence. The space between them was comfortable again. For the first time in a long time, Cristina sat next to her, and there wasn't an urge to say anything, or to try and figure out what to leave unsaid.

Meredith's eyelids started to droop. She lay down on the gurney. Cristina flattened out next to her. They relaxed and stared at the ceiling, nothing but the sound of their breathing intervening in the peace between them. A doze started to pull a blurry blanket over her eyes.

Meredith hovered somewhere in a vague state, relaxed, but not sleeping. When her beeper went off, the shrill sound of it made the length of her body jerk in surprise. She flailed for a moment, swallowing, disoriented. She uttered some unfinished, half-dreamed thought in a messy drip of syllables before she managed to draw the little black device from its clip on her waist.

_RcvryRm3 – OK_ said the little display.

Recovery Room 3 was paging her?

Recovery… OK. Recovery Rooms were for immediate post-op patients still waking up from anesthesia. Recovery Room 3 – OK. Which meant…

Derek. Derek was done? Not dead? Not dying? Done? Reassembled? Okay?

Waking up.

She glanced at her watch. Time had stolen a chunk of her life while she'd been lying there, silent, sort of dreaming, lulled and weary. Cristina had helped bump the pace along. They'd needed to have that discussion. They'd needed to have that alone time. Five hours. She'd been waiting five hours. Five hours was all gone.

"Well?" Cristina said, sighing next to her as she got a view of the beeper's text. "Go on. I won't say I told you so."

The next five minutes blurred into a flurry of color and light and sound as she raced through the halls toward Recovery Room 3. Recovery Room 3, where she would find Derek.

Derek, waking up.


	39. Chapter 37

**Author's Notes: Well, here it is. Part Maybe-30, which I wrote back when part 26 was still in its infancy. I can't believe that was more than ten parts ago! And I really can't believe I thought this would be even close to part 30. I mean, for Derek to be waking up, he would have required surgery. And I hadn't even gotten them home yet when I wrote this, lol. This chapter is based more off a moment toward the end than a driving map for character development, and I think it shows in the pacing - no roller coaster in this one, just a steady, subtle building. No big shocks. Nothing super eventful. Waking up is a damned hard job, sometimes. I hope you like the breather, at least ;p **

* * *

Meredith's lungs were burning by the time the doors to Recovery Room 3 came into sight. As she rounded the corner, a nurse clad in pale OR scrubs exited the room. She didn't recognize him. He had clipped brown hair and, from the way his scrubs sagged loosely and the angular bits of his limbs she could see, he sported a thin, gangly physique that screamed stereotypical chess club. Definitely not a varsity sports contributor. He looked tired, like he'd been on his feet for hours. Redness flushed his cheeks, but the rest of him seemed pale. He smiled when he caught sight of her barreling toward him.

"Dr. Grey!" he said. "Good, you got my page. We just wheeled Dr. Shepherd in and got him settled. He's not really awake yet, but you can go ahead and sit with him if you want. Just try not to get in Lucy's way. She's the floor nurse." He winced, looked her up and down, and shook his head. "What am I saying? You know the rules, don't you. Sorry."

"Thank you, Craig," she said, breathless, sparing only a second to read his nametag before she went back to trying to collect herself. Breathe, breathe, breathe. "Were you…?" There with him…

The man nodded. "Yes. He did very well. As far as I know, there were no problems, but I'm sure Dr. Weller will talk to you soon. He's scrubbing out, still. I think."

She smiled weakly, trying not to shake with the urge to brush past him and go in, trying to spare a moment for him. She didn't even know him, and he'd taken the time to page her almost immediately? "Thank you for paging me," she said, even as the whining pull of the room began to ache. Derek, Derek, Derek, waking up. Go. Go in. Go! "I hadn't expected to hear anything until he was in the ICU."

"We bend the rules for our own," Craig said with a wink. He didn't keep her with idle conversation. He just smiled and pulled the door open for her, adding his congratulations into the mix. Her breath caught as the breeze of the motion hit her in the face, and she stepped forward.

The room was bright, but in that harsh, ugly way brought on by the saturation of fluorescent overhead lights, and there were no windows. Soft, tinny music played from a small radio sitting on the counter of the nurses' station. The room was fairly small, relatively speaking, and was more of a wide, converted hallway than anything else. The nurse standing behind the desk looked up, waved, and pointed before she went back to whatever notes she was taking. Meredith followed the invisible line to the three beds perpendicular to the wall across from the nurses' station. The middle bed was empty. The one on the right had a woman she didn't recognize in it. In the bed on the left lay Derek, though she almost didn't recognize him at first.

Meredith fought down the lump in her throat as she walked over and sat down on the small, wheeled stool next to his bed. There weren't a lot of chairs around to choose from. Visits to the post-op recovery areas weren't normally permitted. Usually, only nurses and doctors passed through, and they didn't have much reason to be sitting down.

His bed was slightly raised to keep his head elevated, which would reduce any potential swelling. A periwinkle-colored thermal blanket covered him up to the armpits. His arms rested on top of the blankets, unmoving. An automated blood pressure cuff wrapped around his left bicep and was just beginning to unconstrict as she approached. An intravenous line dripped fluids and medications into a vein in his right forearm. There was a heart monitor clipped to his right middle finger, and the larger monitor screen that sat on a stand near the head of the bed bleeped, softly pronouncing the slow, steady rhythm of his heart. Multiple wire leads snaked down underneath the neckline of his thin hospital gown. He looked small and vulnerable, but what really made her want to cry was the endotracheal tube that was still stuck down his throat.

She hadn't expected…

She shook her head. Of course he would still be intubated. He wasn't awake yet, well, not really. It was normal procedure after brain surgeries to leave the recipient intubated until the anesthesia wore off a little more. But that knowledge didn't help her now. This was… this was Derek. Not some patient she'd met the same day. And he would have to wake up more before they would take it out. She hoped the portion of the anesthetic that caused memory loss would take that away from him, would blot out the moments until the tube was gone, later when he was looking back on the experience. He would be so scared, and intubation was a horrible experience regardless of any phobias.

For a moment, she found herself unable to focus, and her gaze went from monitor to monitor to monitor to him and back around in circles like a child in toy store overload. What first, what first, what first? Except with not nearly the same amount of exuberance or elation. He looked… She just hadn't expected… Derek was supposed to be smiling and joking with her, bemoaning the fact that the nurses hadn't taken his hair in a bag request seriously.

But that had been stupid. Stupid, of course. He'd just been wheeled out of the OR moments ago, if what Craig had said was any indication. Derek, waking up, literally meant Derek, waking up. He'd been out for a long time. Anesthesia was a troublesome drug to shake off. But…

Fine. Everything looked fine. All things considered. Fine. Everything…

She rested her elbows along the bedside railing and stared for a moment before picking up his left hand. It hung limply in her grasp. His eyelids fluttered, and she occasionally caught a glimpse of brilliant blue peeking out from underneath his lashes, but for the most part, he remained still and silent.

"Hey," she said, swallowing back tears. "I'm here." What was she supposed to say? Sorry you probably feel like crap? Platitudes containing sorry in them seemed asinine and silly. And reassurances seemed just as stupid. But…

"You're fine," she said. "You're in the recovery area. They'll move you to the ICU after you wake up a little more. But everything is fine. Really fine, not just Meredith fine. Your surgery is over, and you're fine."

He lay there, not moving, not answering, not giving her any indication that her words had helped in some way, not that she had expected much after fully realizing the state he was in. Not so soon.

He hadn't wanted to do this, hadn't wanted to get this procedure done. He'd said it was major surgery, said that he would be out of work for six weeks or more, said that he'd be in the hospital for a week. Hell, she'd assisted him through enough craniotomies to know exactly what shape he'd be in afterward. But it hadn't really hit home. Not until this moment. He'd had his skull drilled open. Derek. It didn't seem so scientific or fascinating or fun when it was Derek. She almost felt guilty for even getting excited over the people who weren't Derek.

She swallowed. She knew he was still working his way out from under the crush of the anesthesia. She knew it, knew there was absolutely nothing wrong. That all of this was normal. The tubes, the wires, the monitors. His silent stillness. All normal. But she still kept half-expecting him to open his eyes, smile at her, spit out the tube, and make some ridiculous, snarky, flirty joke. Got you! Just kidding! But he didn't. He didn't do anything.

"Dr. Grey?" Dr. Weller said in his soothing, rich, baritone voice as he walked up, clipboard in hand. He still wore his navy surgical scrubs, though he had replaced his protective gear with a pristine lab coat that had his name in embroidered script on the pocket.

Dr. Weller smiled as she looked up. "The surgery went fantastically," he said. "I was able to remove all of the excess blood and clots as well as repair the area. No problems at all. We'll leave him intubated until he wakes up a bit more, but really, the whole thing was textbook."

"Good," Meredith said, looking back at Derek. "That's… That's good." Even to her own ears, she sounded like some lost little girl, everything cracking and crumbling against her vocal cords.

Dr. Weller put his hand on her shoulder in an almost paternal gesture. The warmth of his skin seeped through the fabric of her scrubs. "He'll be fine, Dr. Grey. Really," Dr. Weller said as he went around to the other side of the bed. "He's strong, he's extremely healthy, and we caught things in time." He leaned down. "Dr. Shepherd? Are you awake yet?" he said in a loud, authoritative voice.

Derek twitched, the first real movement Meredith had seen from him since she'd sat down. His eyes opened and he stared dully at nothing in particular for a few moments before he fell back into the artificial slumber gnawing on his central nervous system like a parasite. Not welcome anymore, but lingering to its last breath.

Dr. Weller turned to the floor nurse as she came up at a hurried, bouncing trot. "Lucy," he said, "Let's give him another twenty minutes or so, and then we'll see about taking this out." He gestured at the tube.

Lucy nodded. "Okay, Dr. Weller," she said. The pair of them walked off to chat at the nurses' station, leaving Meredith alone again.

Meredith leaned against the railings and stared. Just… stared. Her first instinct was to reach forward and brush her hands through his hair, except his skull was swathed in a crown of white bandages, and underneath, were she to peel them back, she knew she would find only cleanly-shaven skin, save for a few inevitable nicks, and the sutures over the area where they had opened everything up. The thought of it made her eyes sting, the thought of him shaven and sewn up. The shaving thing had bothered him before, even more than the prospect of potentially facing death. She'd understood his fears on a rational level at the time, understood his reservations, understood that he didn't want to be vulnerable and at someone else's mercy, but, now… She was starting to get it in a gut deep, twisting, heart-panging way, seeing him like this.

He was stripped. Stripped of his dignity, or at least that was probably how he would feel about it. Stripped of his control, stripped of himself. There was no part of his body that was his own right then. None. He was a sick man in a bed, labeled with a name on his wrist, monitored, regulated, defined in the vast terms of what he couldn't do, rather than what he could, which, at that moment, was hardly anything. To someone like Derek Shepherd, the whole experience would be awful and frightening and… just…

Bad.

"I'm here, Derek. You're not alone. Everything is fine," she whispered. Don't be scared. Please. Be okay.

He twitched, and she felt a surging snake of relief tunnel through her, even as tears threatened. He'd heard. She was certain he'd heard that. Maybe… Maybe she was helping. She hoped. Hoped she was helping.

She settled for stroking her thumb along his hand as she tried to bite back the weeping feeling that threatened her in throbbing pulses, like a wave or something. The warmth of his skin was comforting against the immaculate lack of personality that surrounded them. White, white, white. The smell of antiseptic made her nose tickle. The hospital had never bothered her before, but now, it seemed so… austere… Not even the soft hum of the radio sitting on the counter, which was tuned to the local soft rock station and emitted distant tinny notes of melody and taps of percussion, overcame the sudden chill that swept against her. And Derek… Derek had to wake up to this.

"I'm here," she repeated. Not running. Here. Forever. Please, be okay.

For the longest set of moments, she hovered in a vague state, almost disconnected from herself, letting the beeping heart monitor lull her with its repeated assurances that Derek was fine, Derek was fine, Derek was fine, bleep, bleep, bleep, alive, alive, alive, until finally, his fingers moved, really moved, not just twitched. For the barest flicker of a second, she felt the sharp stirrings of unexpected panic. What if this was like the last time? _Are you a nurse?_ This had been brain surgery. Dr. Weller could have inadvertently damaged something without even realizing it. Who knew what could---

Her breath caught in her throat when she felt him grip her hand. Not a spasm, but a real grip, albeit weak. She followed the line of his arm and found him staring at the space she occupied, not exactly at her, but close enough. A drugged haze clouded his expressive eyes with a quality of dullness, and his gaze was spaced, not all there, but… he was staring. At her. Sort of. She smiled, the panic flushed away, and his eyelids drooped shut again. His grip relaxed, but not all the way. Enough strength remained to tell her he was awake, sort of. Awake and aware that his hand was being held.

"Hey," she whispered as she leaned forward to brush his cheek, to reassure him. "You're doing great. Everything is fine. You're in post-op recovery right now. Your surgery is over. You just have to do the healing thing, now."

He didn't move or do much to answer other than weakly squeeze her hand, but it was enough. Enough to send a steady thrum of overwhelming giddiness down her spine as though someone had plucked it like a guitar string. He was awake, sort of, and he knew her, and he would be okay. He would be.

She could vaguely recall coming out of anesthesia after her appendectomy, which was a much less complicated procedure than a craniotomy. There had been a brief period where she had been awake and mostly aware of her surroundings, but even the little things like movement, opening her eyes, speaking, those had all been a pipe dream, and she'd just sort of languished, hovering in the cloud. Then the discomfort had set in as everything had worn off more, and she'd groggily asked for more morphine. When they'd wheeled her out of recovery and shoved a glass of water and some graham crackers at her, she'd drooped over the tray table, picked at the meager offerings of food and drink. The crackers had tasted like cardboard, almost made her sick thinking about eating more. The water had felt good, but she'd been unhappy enough that it hadn't really registered. Finally, they'd left her alone to sleep while they'd rounded up Izzie and George to drive her home. It had been a miserable experience, one she didn't care to repeat any time soon, and she'd been on the table for all of forty minutes, if that. Derek had been out for hours, and he was older than she was. Older enough that there was no way he was going to just bounce back, no matter how healthily he treated his body.

She stroked his hand, watched the crease of his skin as it followed her touch, watched the streak of white that the pressure of her thumb against him created. His fingers flexed. His eyelids fluttered. He was struggling. Struggling to push himself above the drowning undertow of muscle relaxants and slowly dissipating sedatives. A soft, sputtering noise escaped from his mouth around the tube, and his head jerked minutely.

"Take your time," she whispered, squeezing him back. "I know this sucks. The tube will come out soon. Don't worry. Don't fight it. You're fine. You're in the recovery room. Nothing went wrong. It's all finished. And I'm here. I'm here, Derek." Don't be frightened. Please. Please, be okay.

His lips twitched and the little barely-movements stilled as the sound of her voice washed over him. He tilted his head toward her, though he didn't open his eyes. He was listening. Even if he wasn't entirely with her yet, he was listening.

"I'm here, Derek. It's okay. I love you. I'm here. Take your time. I'll be here." Be okay.

His lips twitched around the breathing tube again, but this time, it seemed more like he was trying to smile and couldn't than it seemed like he was struggling. His eyes came open for a sluggish crawl of moments. Through the glaze of all the crap circulating in his system, he managed to meet her gaze, look at her, right at her, not through her, or at the blurry space she occupied. He blinked.

"Hey," she said, her voice gushing like a some sort of spurting wound. Inappropriately gushing. She was sure. Inappropriate. Gushy. She couldn't help it. A wavery smile quivered against her teeth, and she reached up to wipe her eyes as she sniffled. "Hey, you're doing great, Derek. Dr. Weller said everything went excellently. You're fine. I'm here."

His eyes slipped shut again, the surface he'd fought so hard to break through sucked him back under, and she felt bereft in the sudden absence. His heart monitor bleeped softly. He was fine. Still fighting all the drugs, trying to come back. But fine. The blood pressure cuff constricted.

Lucy smiled as she came to check his vitals once again. "You two are so sweet," she babbled. "I think Debbie won the hospital pool, though."

Meredith turned to the woman as she scanned Derek's various monitors, checked his urine output, and then checked his pulse manually with her fingers at his wrist. His other hand hung limply in Lucy's grasp. "Hospital pool?" Meredith asked, finding her voice again after a long set of sputtering moments.

Lucy grinned. "Over when you two were finally getting engaged. Debbie changed her bet about a nanosecond after she found out he was taking you to meet his family."

"Oh," Meredith replied. Why? Why was she not surprised?

"Congratulations, by the way," Lucy said, and then she moved off to check the woman in the other bed, who seemed to be a lot further along than Derek was in the whole waking up process. Her eyes were open, and she was snuffling around sort of groggily. It looked like she'd had some sort of abdominal procedure done.

Meredith turned back to Derek and squeezed his hand. "Did you know there was a pool? I didn't know there was a pool…"

He didn't answer, not that she'd expected he would. A hospital pool about when they would get engaged? It seemed so… Didn't they have better things to do? And yet… She smiled. Smiled so hard it made her face hurt. A fuzzy warmth spilled into her brain. She'd proposed. She'd actually freakin' proposed. She'd stolen Derek's eventual knee thing thunder, but she didn't regret it. It felt right to have it announced and for real. Well, realer than it had seemed only hours before, when she'd been wandering the halls in a grieving, spaced-out daze.

"It's so weird that everyone knows," she continued as she lowered her face closer to him and sank her tone into something conspiratorial. "I only proposed this morning. The gossip chain in this place would probably put the CIA intelligence network to shame. I mean, I knew it would get around fast. But I've never even met Lucy before and she's acting like she knows us. And Craig. Do you know a nurse named Craig? He seemed pretty nice. We should sic Nurse Debbie on Bin Laden. Seriously. It's late afternoon, by the way, if you were wondering. There aren't any windows in here, so you might be. You were out for about five hours, prep room time after they wheeled you away included. It feels good, though. Everyone knowing. It feels really good. Not to jump subjects on you. Sorry if I'm confusing you. I'll try to babble less. I will. I know I'm pretty hard to follow sometimes, even when you're not drugged and I'm not ridiculously freaked out. Non-mobiley ridiculously freaked out, for your information."

He did the not-really-a-smile-but-trying lip-twitchy thing again before he stilled. She grinned back at him even though he wasn't watching her. Sometimes, you could tell when someone was smiling at you even if you weren't looking. Derek needed smiles right then. He needed to not be afraid that he couldn't move, that he was so unwell. For someone like Derek, he needed it almost as much as he needed air.

She rubbed his fingers, worked at his knuckles firmly, just to let him know that she was still there, to offer him what little comfort she could. He remained quiet, eyes closed, but there was a more… there… quality to him, like he was just underneath the surface of himself, wavering beneath the ripples of water, visible, ready to burst through and stay surfaced… He seemed… awake, but stuck, somehow, rather than hovering in some sort of waking, surreal daydream with a few breaks of clarity.

Dr. Weller returned with Lucy in tow after a few more minutes. "All right. Dr. Shepherd, are you awake?" he said loudly. "We'd like to take this tube out if you're with us again."

Derek opened his eyes, and, though his stare remained a little wandery and spaced, he looked toward Dr. Weller. He spluttered around the tube again, and his whole neck seemed like it was straining. His jaw moved. Intubation was extremely unpleasant. The more he woke up, the more miserable he would get if they didn't take the tube out soon. His arms twitched, just the barest flutter of movement. Meredith frowned at the pinched look that had developed around his eyes. Before, when he'd been staring, he'd seemed dazed and… well… Not there in a definitive, Derek's-at-the-wheel sense. He blinked. He was definitely there now. He weakly grasped at her fingers, almost like he was trying to tell her something, but…

"It'll come out soon," she said, grasping his hand lightly.

He calmed, but his eyes retained their pleading misery, and she just wanted to scream. He was obviously awake. Take the damned thing out! She refrained, though. Dr. Weller knew what he was doing. And if Derek went into some sort of distress, already being intubated would save time and perhaps his life. Anesthesia could really mess around with a person's respiratory system, and he needed his airway to be guaranteed clear and protected until he was definitively in control again. Not to mention, anesthesia had the tendency to make people feel sick, and the tube would protect from vomit as well. Dr. Weller was just doing his job. Just doing his job.

Why did she still want to scream, then?

"Can you wiggle your toes?" Dr. Weller asked as he walked to the foot of the bed and gripped the blankets over Derek's feet. Meredith didn't see any movement, but Dr. Weller smiled and said, "Wonderful. Can you touch your fingers one after the other to your thumb?" Meredith felt a surge of relief as Derek's fingers moved in her grasp, but it didn't get rid of the nagging whisper at the edge of her mind. She didn't think Derek's expression was just because of the tube. Something wasn't quite right…

"Excellent," Dr. Weller said. "Follow my penlight?" He flashed a light at Derek, and Derek followed, blinking, tearing. "All right, Dr. Shepherd. I'm sure you know the drill. Breathe out on three. One, two, three." Dr. Weller pulled the tube out slowly. Derek was utterly silent until the very end. He made a strange, curtailed choking noise as he gagged, and Dr. Weller drew the tip of the tube away. Derek shut his eyes again without speaking and licked his lips.

Lucy checked him over again and replaced the absent tube with a much less intrusive nasal cannula. She snaked the oxygen lines over his ears and turned the air on. "Looking wonderful, Dr. Shepherd," Lucy commented, cheerful and bubbly.

Derek rested silently, semi-dozing with his eyes half-lidded for a few minutes while Lucy went off to do other things. A team of nurses wheeled another man in from some operating room. They lined him up next to the middle bed, and as the space next to Derek fell into a swell of activity, Derek cracked his eyes open. His gaze darted to the next bed as Lucy, another doctor Meredith didn't recognize, and several other hands counted to three. They gripped the sheet, and transferred the person… the body… the patient, whatever, with a set of groaning heaves to the middle bed.

Derek's eyes widened. He blinked and peeled his gaze away after a moment, but the clawing fear didn't leave his expression. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came was a throaty, hoarse, twisted syllable. He winced, swallowed, and shut his eyes, but his fingers wrapped around her own and tightened. His heart rate started to climb. Just a little.

"It's okay," she whispered. She sat, leaning up against the bed railing, running her hand up and down his arm with one hand, clutching his hand with the other. "It's over, and you're fine, Derek. I'm here." She cried. She couldn't stop herself. She… He was remembering the motorcycle stuff. She was fairly certain. The way he'd looked at that patient who'd just been brought in… Was he seeing himself? Tossed, unconscious, on a gurney like a thing. Just a thing and not a person.

His heart rate kept climbing bit by bit, and she was fairly certain it had nothing to do with him waking up. It was something else. Fear. Maybe. Something. She was certain. His fingers kept tightening, tight, tight, tighter, until the bones in her hand ached, and if it were anyone else, she would have commented, would have slapped the grip away. But she would let him wring her palm until something was broken if it made him feel a little better.

"Derek, are you doing okay?" she said, but he didn't really answer, just gave her some mumbly, incoherent bit of sluggish, hoarse syllables. His throat was probably a wreck after the intubation, and it didn't help that he was still drugged out of his mind. His eyes closed for a moment, he took a breath, and he stared at her, his gaze pleading, sick… Help. She gripped his hand, trying to ignore the pain in her knuckles as he squeezed her fingers.

"You okay?" she asked. It was a stupid question. Stupid. His stare clearly said no. Help, it said. Help. But she had no idea what he wanted. "What do you need?"

He swallowed once, twice, again, licked his lips. The first time he tried, all he managed was another throaty sound that didn't make sense. She leaned closer as he prepared another attempt with rough, dry pants.

"'M cold," Derek finally managed to rasp. The words sounded so weak and quiet and wispy, so unlike the man she knew that Meredith felt the lump from earlier returning with a vengeance. She stroked his hand, and suddenly, as she stared at his eyes, which were upset, pinched, blinking, watering, she knew, knew what she'd missed. That nagging thing. He was at the part of waking up where he realized he was in pain. Where the cloud went away. The relaxants and all that junk were withdrawing in defeat, and now his body was checking in. I'm cold. I'm thirsty. I'm tired. I've been violated, and I hurt. Please, help me.

Meredith waved Lucy back over. The dark-haired, bubbly nurse trotted up, a concerned look on her face despite her effervescence. "He needs another blanket," Meredith said. "Maybe a heated one? And I think he needs more painkillers."

Lucy smiled. "I'll get a blanket, Dr. Shepherd. Do you need more morphine?"

Derek blinked, blinked, blinked. "Yes," he whispered hoarsely. Lucy nodded and left for a moment.

Meredith had to stop herself from crushing his fingers in her grasp as her wakeful strength overruled his weakened, clenching fingers. He looked at her. "Sorry," she said as she forcibly relaxed her grip. She watched with an awful, sinking feeling as Derek's eyes watered and started to spill over in earnest, but he didn't make a sound, didn't move. She'd been so elated that he had been waking up, and now… Now, it was almost worse.

"I'm here," she said again, struggling to find anything to say that might help. Anything at all, but there was nothing. No words came. She leaned forward and brushed his cheek. Her fingers slipped against his wet skin. He leaned into the touch and let loose a ratcheting breath with a little cracking moan piggybacking on its coattails. "Lucy will be back in a minute," she said. "Hold on."

Anesthesia made people cry. Sometimes. She tried to tell herself it was just that. And that he really wasn't suffering so terribly. But…

"Mere," he croaked, and he gazed at her with a look that plainly said he hurt before his eyes drooped shut again under the pull of exhaustion and ache. His heart monitor was starting to speed up even more. Long, slow breaths shortened into clipped gasps as whatever pain receptors dampened by the anesthesia came roaring back to life.

"I know," she said, swallowing. She should have realized earlier, when he'd just been starting to ache. She should have. Earlier. Back when his heart rate had just begun its slow crawl toward racing. "You're doing really great, Der. You're doing so, so great."

Her eyelids pinched out tears every time she blinked. She couldn't stop them. This was Derek. This was Derek, and he couldn't move, he was frightened, he was in pain, he was probably feeling sick, and she couldn't do a damned thing for him. She didn't think she'd ever seen him cry over physical pain before. Never ever. He seemed to live and breathe by the whole stoic thing, not in the sense that he wouldn't admit to pain, but that he ignored it, or tried to stuff it away, or just didn't realize he was even **in** pain in the first place. This was all new. And horrible. This was her future husband.

Husband. The word had such an odd ring to it. It made her lip quiver. There was such a finality to it. Husband. The sick thing. She would be vowing to do this whenever he needed it. Her gut twisted, and the back of her throat constricted with pain. Screw the sick thing, she wanted to flat out trade. It hurt, and it felt awful to sit there with him while he was suffering, but it was right. She was sure. Husband. Dr. Shepherd. Dr. Grey-Shepherd. Dr. Shepherd-Grey. Whatever. The name didn't even matter all that much. Not to her. The details were immaterial at that point. Wife. That would be her. And he would be… Husband. It was right. The idea of offering to do this for eternity seemed right, no matter how helpless and sick it made her feel. Because…

She loved him. Deeply. In a throw-herself-on-the-sword sort of way. She had no idea when it had gotten that serious. But she did. She loved him. That much.

Lucy returned with a dark blue thermal blanket and draped it over him while he rested, panting, with his eyes closed. Lucy slipped some morphine into his intravenous drip. "Morphine is in," she said. "You should feel a little better soon. Once you're down in the ICU, we'll give you a button so you can self-administer it."

Lucy went back to straightening the blanket after she'd finished administering the morphine. She covered his arms with it and tucked it in at the edges of the bed. The hand Meredith held poked out from the side, but otherwise, he was completely covered. The blanket came to a stop at his neck, and he looked even smaller, somehow.

Feel better soon turned out to be almost instantaneous. Perhaps thirty or forty seconds. One moment, suffering had clung to his features like a dark shroud, and the next moment, Derek had relaxed back into a weary, glazed stupor of drugs. His heart rate repelled back down off the cliff into a hypnotic drawl, and his breaths relaxed into long, raspy things that soothed Meredith like the subtle rocking of a boat over water. Meredith slumped as his grip slackened, swallowing back the sob of relief she felt when she looked into Derek's eyes and didn't find raw pain staring back at her. The gentle pulse of tears stopped, leaving a glistening, evaporating mess on his face. She brushed his cheek again as she sniffled.

He blinked, swallowed. "Water?" Derek said, his voice cracking and weak.

Lucy frowned, looking up from his chart as she wrote notes on it. "Sorry, Dr. Shepherd. You can't have fluids yet. I'll be back in a few minutes to check on you."

Can't. You can't. You can't. A vague swell of upset clouded his features as Lucy walked away.

Meredith tried to smile when Derek turned to her, his silent, glazed-looking stare falling on her. She was sure she looked very reassuring. Puffy-faced and crying. Wonderful. She couldn't help it. She just couldn't. He looked so sick, so helpless, so not himself… She'd thought she would be prepared for this, what with all the crap that had happened the week before, what with sitting with him before they'd come to take him away, but this… This was different. Different, but… She loved him. And there was no way she was moving from that stool. No. Way.

He swallowed, took in short little breaths, looked for a moment like he was trying to find a word, trying, trying to talk, but she squeezed his hand and shushed him. "Don't try. I know your throat is really sore. Dr. Weller said everything went perfectly. No complications or anything," she babbled in the silence as he watched her. She knew she was repeating herself from before, but she had no idea how much of anything he would or did remember from the last hour or so, and she wanted to make sure he was reassured. Not scared. She stroked his hand. He was stuck there. Stuck. What could she do for him?

She settled on a gentle, flowing narrative. "You're fine," she said. "No complications," she emphasized again, just to make sure the message got through the haze. No complications yet, anyway. But she didn't want to go there right then. "And you're doing really great. I bet you'll be up and walking by tomorrow. I called your Mom, by the way. She's coming, Derek. She won't be here until tomorrow, but she's coming. I don't know about the rest of your family. I didn't talk to them. Ellen promised to call around. The whole hospital knows we're engaged, including Cristina, by the way. That didn't go so well, at first, but I think we figured some stuff out. It's pretty nice that everyone knows, I think. I really love you. And I love my ring. And I love showing it off. So, thanks for saying yes. Oh, and Dr. Bailey has insisted that I study all week. I ran into her on the way back with your things. I probably should have mentioned it, but… there were other things to talk about then. Anyway, she said I should find a quiet place to study, namely, your bedside. So, if you can help it, I'd appreciate some peace and quiet, buster. I know it might be hard to manage. By the way, I think you need a new duffel bag. Yours is getting kind of holey. As in containing holes, not obtaining status as a religious object thing."

He settled back against his pillow and relaxed, his eyelids drooping as he listened to her rattle on and on and on. He watched her, silent, just watched. His hand was warm in her grasp, warm and solid and real. She talked about anything she could think of, anything at all. On, and on, just keeping him company, letting him know she was there, even if she ended up somewhere in a pit of nonsense, which she did, quite often. She doubted he really cared about why she'd used a different shampoo that morning, or the fact that she'd somehow lost an earring in the chaos of that day, or how she hoped the traffic cameras had realized, when she'd bolted through the intersections that morning, returning with his duffel bag, that the lights had still been yellow for a nanosecond or two. Talk about inane. Talk about drivel. As an improviser, she really kind of sucked.

He didn't seem to mind, though. The longer she droned, the less tense he seemed. He drifted in and out, but she kept talking. After about twenty minutes, she finally had to stop, take a breath, and rest. It was exhausting. Exhausting trying to be so freaking strong when all she wanted to do was crawl in bed with him. Exhausting trying to come up with a million different subjects, even for her, Queen of Nervous Babble-on-and-on, Destroyer of Words. She chose a moment to take a break when he had his eyes shut in what appeared to be a light doze. Her endless river of words stuttered to a halt. She dotted the end of her sentence with a quiet, "I love you." And then she leaned down onto the railing and let herself recuperate for a minute. Her eyes drifted shut and the surroundings started to fuzz up into a background haze as the beginnings of sleep pilfered her senses. Just a minute. She just needed a minute to…

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the beeps and clicks and whirs of all the stuff hooked up to him and his neighbors, all the machinery in the room. The blood pressure cuff chose that moment to constrict with a rush of air.

Her eyes snapped open as his words laved her ears. She shifted and found him staring at her. There was no twinkle there in his eyes. But there wasn't any fear or upset either. He seemed relaxed. A bit dazed, kind of out of things, but with the amount of stuff he was on right then… That was normal. In general, he seemed okay.

"For what?" she said, sniffling, and then she flinched. Way to keep him quiet, asking him stuff. Good going. Real great. Sure. "Wait, no, don't talk— it's," she babbled. But she was too late.

"Sitting here," he said, as if her mere presence was the greatest gift to him in all the world. He closed his eyes, and she sat there, flummoxed, her eyes tearing, her mouth slightly agape. She found it hard to believe he could find her warbly litany of randomness or her quivery sniveling all that comforting, though, she really was trying. But. He'd reacted much the same way before his surgery, too. All she'd done was walk into the room, and he'd visibly brightened, despite his obvious discomfort, despite her obvious discomfort. He'd…

_Sometimes holding someone is enough, Meredith._

She wasn't holding him. She looked down at her hand, clenched around his palm tightly. The touch reassured her as much as she hoped it reassured him. Well, okay, she wasn't embracing him. But she was holding him in the strictest definition of the word, she guessed.

A brief thrill of warmth snuck down her throat and pulled her crying back inside, down into her infinite well of freak out. She breathed, calming slightly. She wiped her face, and for once, a new stream of tears didn't immediately replace the crap she'd just cleared away.

Derek had his eyes closed. He was relaxed. He wasn't anxious or nervous or having any trouble slipping into catnaps anymore. She'd…

Maybe she really was enough, buckets of tears, blotchy skin, shaky grip, and snarly, messed-up, split-endy hair notwithstanding.

Maybe.

She let him sleep. Lucy came to check on him about every ten minutes or so, but it all started running together in one long crawl of minutes. Lucy chatted occasionally as she checked everything, but to Meredith, it was all a tired, tired blur. Her eyelids drooped, and she drifted off against the railing to the sound of the bleeping monitors and the warm feel of Derek's hand resting in her grasp.

A sound snapped Meredith awake, and she blinked to focus on Lucy, who had returned with a Dixie cup in hand. She glanced at her watch blearily, trying not to glare as Lucy grinned at her. An hour. Only a freakin' hour. She swallowed, feeling pasty. Her neck ached from resting at such an awkward angle, and she tilted from side to side, trying to work out the crick. At least Derek was still sleeping, or sleeping again, or… whatever. He needed it.

Leave it to Lucy to ruin it. Lucy set the Dixie cup on his tray table and pulled the table over so that it lay across the bed over his lap. She reached for the controls and hit a button to raise the head of the bed. Meredith bit back on her anger. Lucy was doing her job. Lucy had a mapped schedule based on countless craniotomy patients for Derek to regain full consciousness by, and she was making sure he was following it. If he wasn't following it, something might be wrong. And it was important to discover that immediately. Meredith swallowed. When they moved him to the ICU in a little while, and then after that to step-down, probably the next day, he would get more rest.

Post-op recovery was about making sure Derek was recovering from the anesthesia correctly. And that was not Lucy's fault. In a purely subjective sense, though, Meredith still wanted to snap at her. Leave him alone, and let him heal. Which was also why they didn't let visitors into this area. And Meredith was a visitor, not a doctor at that moment. She halted her anger and stuffed it down under a pile of grateful that she'd been shown up to see Derek in this state at all. She'd expected to have to wait. And she didn't want to think about Derek waking up alone here, not after… everything. He had been scared enough, even with her constant drawl of reassurances.

"Dr. Shepherd?" Lucy said as the bed hummed and pushed him further into a sitting position. Derek snuffled, blinked a little. "Try and eat some ice chips," she said. "We'll do something a little more solid in a bit if you're okay with those." And then she was gone again.

Derek just sort of sat there, eyes closed, like it was too much for him to prop open his eyelids. He moved his hand from Meredith's grasp to the tray table and flopped it down next to the cup, not even bothering to try and move the hand still buried under the extra thermal blanket, the one clipped with the heart monitor. He looked like he wanted to put his head down and just plow back into sleeping. He swallowed and sat with his head tilting forward slightly over the tray.

"Need some help?" Meredith whispered, hesitant, when he didn't move for almost two minutes. She bit her lip. She didn't know if she should have offered. Needing help would definitely not make him feel strong, powerful, and in control. Especially since it was just about lifting a freaking cup.

He jerked as though he'd fallen asleep, and she'd woken him. He blinked once or twice and stared at her.

"Hey," she said with a smile. "You know, you're not nearly as interesting on drugs as I was. Though, the loopy bit before you went under was fun." At first, anyway.

A tired smile curled slowly across his face. He breathed, fast enough to almost be a laugh were he to have put any vocal oomph into it. "Sorry," he said. His voice was still pretty wispy, pretty hoarse, but he sounded so, so much better, like it was more an issue of him not being able to make his throat cooperate than it was him being too weak to speak properly. The hour of sleep and the proper dosage of painkillers had done wonders. The only obstacle remaining seemed to be a sore throat.

"I don't remember," he whispered, breaking her from her thoughts. He sounded vaguely confused, searching for something that just wasn't there. "Nothing after… I… Not like you..."

"You were a bit high," she offered when his voice fell away, elated at his bare hint of levity, the smile he'd gifted her with. He looked so good wearing a smile, even a weak one. "But not like me. You barely said a word."

Another heavy almost-laugh ratcheted out of him. "Somehow, I don't believe you." He blinked, long and slow, and sighed. He curled his fingers around the cup, drew it to his mouth, and sucked on the first ice chip that fell, cracking it between his teeth after letting it melt for a few moments. His eyelids drooped, and the weak smile from before dripped out of his features as he swallowed. The cup sat loosely in a half-hearted grasp, and he seemed utterly disinterested in attempting a second ice chip.

"Try another one, Derek," she prodded.

He grunted and pushed the cup away.

"Nauseated?" she asked as the blood pressure cuff inflated again.

"Mmm," he muttered as he closed his eyes. A curdled, sick sound fell from his lips as he leaned back against the pillows.

"Do you want something for it? The nausea, I mean."

He sniffed and shook his head minutely. "No more drugs," he rasped. He lowered his hand to the side of the bed, searching blindly along the edge for a moment. His face flushed, and he stared ahead, distant and vague, at the nurses' station.

"Can you… Put me back?" he said, his voice wilting with defeat. "The bed… Please."

"Sure," Meredith said. She reached for the controls and lowered him back down to the slightly elevated point he'd started at.

Lucy chose that moment to return for Derek's first neurological check. She drilled him with questions. What day was it, could he spell his name, could he recite three words from memory after she told them to him. She made him move his feet, his arms, made him breathe deeply and cough to clear his lungs. She flashed a penlight at him and made him follow it back and forth. By the end, he was pale and quiet and swallowing. The coughing part had made him wince, and Meredith wondered if he might still be aching from that.

Lucy smiled as she put the penlight away in her breast pocket and said, "Looking wonderful, Dr. Shepherd. I'm going to tell the orderlies you're ready to go down to the ICU now. We'll keep working on those ice chips, maybe again in a few hours. You're doing just fine." Meredith was sure that Lucy meant to be comforting, but there was a tone she had, a quality to her speech that just… Stung. Like she was speaking down or something. Speaking to a kid. Speaking to someone who wasn't fully capable of understanding, and so the words were slowed and over-cheerful. And that was something Derek didn't need at all. Not when… Well, not ever. But especially not right then.

Lucy left in a whirlwind of motion, off to the next bed for the next check. Derek looked away from Meredith as he blinked frantically. She didn't comment, let him have his moment to collect himself. There was so little he could control right then. But she would give him that moment.

She pulled his hand back into her grasp, flattening it between her palms, relishing the warmth before she crumpled her fingers and started tracing the lines on his palm with her thumb. "It sucks," she whispered. "I know it sucks. I'm here, though. ICU will be a little better. The neuro checks will only be every two or three hours, and they'll let you regulate your own morphine. Plus, you'll probably get a window, and I… will stop now. Because I'm probably just making it sound dismal, aren't I? I'm sorry."

He pulled a deep, shuddering breath into his chest and let it out slowly before he turned back to look at her. The crushed look gradually slipped away from him, only to be replaced by the dull, sick look from before. Not anxious, not scared, not hurting. Just… Not healthy. Not all there. Dazed and sick. But, she supposed, that was definitely better than the other three.

"You'll stay?" he asked quietly.

"Of course, I'll stay, Derek. I said I'd be here the whole time."

"Work?"

She blinked when she realized what he was getting at. She'd told him already, but… "Dr. Bailey let me off to study. I won't do any surgeries. I'll just read while you sleep. I'm pretty wicked with a highlighter, you know. I'll ace this thing, no problem. So, you're not allowed to worry about that. Maybe you can quiz me later if you're up to it."

"Okay," he said.

Her breath hitched. He wasn't even trying to convince her to do surgeries. Wasn't trying to make himself sound fine or argue that she would be missing out by staying with him. That tore at her.

"Derek," she said. She had to ask. "Do you remember waking up with the tube?"

"No," he said, sounding just a little lost. "I don't… think so." His tone was flat, sort of detached and drugged. He didn't seem particularly disturbed by the hole or anything, just… slow. A bit disoriented. Which was normal.

She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. She'd been hoping.

"Your mom is coming, by the way," she said. In case he didn't remember that either. "I called her. I'll call her again in a bit to tell her you came out of surgery all right. Maybe when you're sleeping."

"Okay."

"Are you warm enough? Do you need anything? I could… You…" She deflated when she realized this was the sort of thing that was killing him inside. The physical aspects of the whole pampering thing, he didn't seem to mind at all, actually seemed to be taking an immense amount of comfort in them. The handholding. The rubbing. The petting. But the doing things for him? The fact that he couldn't do much more than lie there while she and Lucy did things for him seemed to be what was really crushing his spirit. "Sorry. Sorry, I'm trying, Derek."

His gaze ticked to her hands as she sat there, petting his fingers, wishing there was something else she could do to give him back something of himself. He wasn't forced to endure the endotracheal tube anymore, but the wires, the monitors… He'd been exposed, shaved, cut up. He couldn't even urinate on his own. He had a bag collecting things for him. For someone used to playing god… She swallowed, feeling sick just from the helplessness of watching him be helpless. She couldn't even imagine how it felt to be the one lying there. The appendectomy had been like a short story compared to the freakin' novel Derek was experiencing, or something. She'd been able to go home that day, albeit with light supervision and someone to drive her. He wouldn't even be walking until tomorrow, let alone be able to take care of himself. No, the little bit of plot from her appendectomy had given her a taste of the whole, ugly story, but that was it. A taste, and it had been a bitter one. She wanted to trade with him so badly it was an aching, gnawing thing in her gut. Thoughts of fleeing, running, avoiding never even hit her. She just wanted to trade. It was the only thing she could think of that would definitively fix it all for him. Trading would be good.

"The Chief told me you withdrew from the whole job race thing," she said quietly.

He blinked slowly. His eyes went distant as he went through the slow, visible process of thinking through the drug-induced haze. "Yeah," he said. "Don't want it anymore." He stared pointedly at her, though his eyes were dull.

"I love you, Derek," she replied. "I really, really do. I'm glad you figured things out."

She cried, staring at his hand, his beautiful, lithe, surgeon hand. The skin was warm and pale and flawless. He had nice, strong, wonderful hands. Perfect tendons. Smooth palms. His hands were one of her many favorite features, and he held his still for her in her grasp with not even a hint of shaking, which was… Good. That was good.

He would be fine. He would still be the surgeon he wanted so desperately to be. Fine.

He flexed his fingers in her grasp. The sick look in his eyes fleeted, slowly replaced by something else, something… "Dr. Grey," he said, his lips curling slightly in a weak half-grin. "Are you feeling me up?"

"I might be," she replied, sniffling. She wiped at her face with her free hand.

"You should pace yourself," he said. "I'm playing hard to get."

"Oh, are you?" she said, unable to stop a small grin.

His eyes dipped shut. "Mmm," he replied in a low, exhausted, sick-sounding rumble. "For at least a week or so." He sighed, and it was a depressed sound, but it didn't wreck the fact that he'd joked. He'd made a joke.

She leaned down over the railing, releasing his hand. She brushed his cheek. "You tease," she said, her heart fluttering. He was playing. He felt awful, and he could barely move, but he was playing. With her. Her chest throbbed with sudden, elated warmth.

"I know I'm hard to resist and all…"

"Well, I can't help it," she said, leaning closer. The railing cut her sharply in the stomach as she tilted over it, but she didn't care, didn't care because he felt awful, and he was still playing. With her. "You are pretty sexy," she purred, millimeters from his lips. If he wanted to banter, she would banter.

_You make me happy, Mere. Isn't that enough?_

He let loose a weary chuckle, but she cut him off with a kiss, gentle, searching, and his eyes snapped open. She slid her lips against his, and his light, surprised grunt melted down the back of her throat like chocolate. The taste of him was sweet and soft and sure and so, so familiar, and she wanted more, more, always more, but she resisted the urge to delve. Frenching in the post-op recovery room was probably another reason they didn't usually let visitors back there. That, and she didn't want to strain him. He was the sort of person who'd kiss her back until he was dead from the trying. She pulled back, licking her lips.

He stared at her through a half-lidded gaze as she petted his face with her palm, careful to avoid the oxygen line running high along his cheekbones and back behind his ears. His eyelids drooped, but not before she caught a twinkle, a moment of self-assured I've-still-got-it bleeding through his tired gaze, just a hint of how he'd looked on the plane after their lavatory adventure.

"Naughty, naughty, Dr. Grey," he whispered, licking his lips as if he relished the taste of her as much as she did his. His eyes drifted shut the rest of the way. He swallowed, sniffed. A smirk pulled at his mouth and his torso rumbled with a breathy, light laugh as he wandered into an amusing thought and got lost there. The smirk evened out into a general expression of well-being after a long, crawling journey.

She bit her lip. He looked better. More relaxed. Less defeated. And she realized somewhere along the way that she'd stopped crying. He made her happy, too. She wondered if he'd started to flirt on purpose, and not just for his own peace of mind.

She picked up his hand again. Husband. She tried to imagine a wedding ring there. She'd never seen one. Not even when he'd gone back to Addison. Wedding rings. They would have to pick those out, too. He would look good with one, she decided. He had the perfect fingers for it, perfect hands, perfect… everything. Husband. A smile ripped across her face.

As if he'd shared her thoughts, his fingers moved in her grasp, searching blindly but with an intimate familiarity. His exploration stopped when the tips of his fingers brushed the metal of her engagement ring, weak and light, like the sweep of feathers across her skin, just at the base of her ring finger. He slid his index finger along the cool, thin slice of platinum encircling her.

"I have what I want," he rasped.

A small smile curled his lips, and he escaped into dreaming for a while.


	40. Chapter 38

**Author's Notes: I hope everyone is still with me, or at the very least, having a wonderful summer vacation far far away from their computers :) This part was a bitch to write. I seem to always pick Derek POV parts when Derek POV is probably one of the most splintered, confusing places to be ever, which makes them a chore to get into the proper mindset for, lol. I had some very specific goals with this part, but it's mostly a bridge. To be honest, I've lost this part on my hard drive, wasted several hours just getting what I'd written back, and then spent a whole day trying to tweak it somewhere... Somewhere I'm not sure I've quite achieved yet, but I need to move on or I'll stagnate. You know that moment where you just want to scream because there's nothing else effective you can do? I'm totally there.**

* * *

The sleep Meredith had lulled him into turned out to be a precious thing. His eyes had closed on the sight of her hovering over his lips, the softness of her breath buffeting his skin as she pulled back from a kiss that'd breathed some much needed warmth and life back into the remnants of himself. While the embers of her fire had still fueled him with an afterthought of its energy, he'd been able to forget everything. 

Time had fleeted for a moment, and when it came back to tease him with its laggard passing, the world was moving. Blankets buried him up to the neck, and the bed he'd been sleeping soundly atop of left the space underneath him. He tried to move, but it was difficult. So difficult. Sheets that would have been a laughable restraint only days before had become immovable chains.

A gasp fell from his lips, and he forced his eyes open, blinking against the bright, beating glare of lights. Drugs and disorientation made the scene around him a pinwheel of color flying past. A crowd of blurry, amorphous faces, none of them looking down at him, surrounded him. Everything spun behind his eyes when he shut them again.

"What?" he muttered, the word escaping from his keeping more as a syllable drenched in sedation than as a sound with meaning. What. What are they doing to me? Why can't I move?

Memory crept back through the haze. He'd had surgery. He'd… He'd woken up at one point after. Or had it been two? Or… Meredith. Where was? She was… She was supposed to be there. He'd fallen asleep with his hand as her willing captive, and he remembered a vague blur of her promise.

_I said I'd be here the whole time._

Where… Why? And when was now? He'd just closed his eyes. Or had he?

His thoughts came to him like some sort of dying beast, thrashing, wild, desperate, but with a crushing weariness that grew heavier with every struggling heartbeat. Where. What. What. Meredith. Moving, speaking, trying to figure it all out again seemed unfathomable when twitching his legs made him tired, when thinking even this hard made him tired. They were taking him somewhere, going to do something, and he found he was too exhausted to fight with it despite the tiny flicker of pleading strumming at his mental cobwebs like a stuck fly, telling him, begging him to get up and reassert himself. Derek Shepherd. He should do that. Tell them.

Derek Shepherd could.

But the blankets gripped him like a body bag, holding him still. They were warm against the bare skin of his legs and arms and over the flimsy cotton thing they'd let him dress in. His head ached dully against the roar of opiates in his blood. He felt like he needed to urinate. Constantly. His throat throbbed like someone had raked claws up and down the length of it from the inside. His mouth was parched but sticky with the bit of saliva he'd managed to conjure. He couldn't see very well, and the space underneath his eyelids felt scratchy and heavy.

Mostly, though, the bother came from the sheer act of doing. Anything. Doing anything. And from the exhaustion that infected him deep into the marrow of his bones. He knew he was drugged with new things -- Morphine? Steroids? Diuretics? Anti-epileptics? Antibiotics? Others? -- and fighting off the remnants of old things -- Anesthesia? Anxiolytics? -- distantly knew it. And that somehow made the exhaustion worse, because it wasn't even something he'd done to himself by overexertion or stress. It'd been done to him. Stuck into his body through the itchy tube taped against his arm, connecting the outside world with his internal plumbing.

He felt like shit.

Awareness of the room fuzzed out for a heartbeat as the cool air swept against his forehead, his chin, practically the only exposed parts of him, and tempting but defeated sleep would have swept him away again, but somebody had her hands flattened against his cheeks from behind, bracing him as they moved him over dead air in the grips of only a sheet, stilling him, supporting him, and when a finger of the left hand sank against the hollow of Derek's cheek, a finger belonging to someone he didn't know and hadn't explicitly permitted to be touching him, he found it hard to forget his situation, and the throb of panic made him cling to wakefulness. He couldn't even reach up to claw the hands away. The concept of his personal space had been torn asunder.

A new flat surface came to meet the space underneath him. His body settled and flattened out of its own accord. The surface was narrow, not that he was able to move enough to take advantage of the space they'd stolen away from him. The hands on his face withdrew, and he heard the hollow sound of flesh gripping metal behind him. One of the faces down by his feet bent down below his field of view, and he heard a plastic-sounding crinkle. The stretcher inched forward, wheels squeaking with the first groan of building momentum.

Moving. They were moving him. Why? Where?

"Stop," he managed to croak.

They did, which confused him. What?

The last time he'd been in this position, they hadn't looked at him, hadn't spoken to him. The dull murmur of his vital statistics had flown across him overhead as he'd tried so hard to breathe. Looking up. Looking up at them, because he had been on his back and unable to do much else. Breathe, Derek. Just breathe.

"It's okay, Dr. Shepherd," a strange voice said through the murk and mire. One of the people in the ring around him looked down at him and smiled. A man. Orderly? Familiar, but not known. Derek blinked, but nothing came into focus. He couldn't see very well. Drugs. Messing with his head. Things were blotted, and the lights were sharp and disorienting.

"It's okay," Meredith said from somewhere to the left, her voice bitten with the audible remnants of tears. Meredith. He blinked. She was still there. The crushing feeling in his chest lessened. "They're just moving you to the ICU, Derek, to another bed," she continued. "I'm still here. You know how the administrative people hate it when beds migrate across departmental borders."

He did. He did know that. He'd forgotten… Where…

The bodies surrounding him moved away, and Meredith came into view. She smiled down at him. The sluggish crawl of panic died away. He blinked, but in the absence of unsettled fear, it seemed like fighting the sinking of the Titanic just to get his eyelids to open again, so he sighed and rested there. Giving in.

Please, don't leave me here, he wanted to say.

_That was okay, right? You looked pretty okay._

She was the only one who was supposed to know him like this.

"I know," he said, speaking in the direction he'd seen her standing before his body had refused him the use of his eyelids. His voice was weak and scratchy in a way that made him hate it. "The hard to get thing includes making you chase me," he added, trying to add a smile for her benefit. For his.

Derek Shepherd flirted. He could still do that. He could. He…

Felt a little better once the words had marched out of his addled head and into the air.

Her soft, playful, admonishing reply of, "Derek, just sleep," fell against his cheek. Her breaths laved his skin, and warmth radiated so near to him he knew she was there, hovering, inches from him, and he managed to smile at her. When she touched him, it seemed better. He leaned into her palm, sighing, weary.

"Do I get the kissing therapy yet?" he murmured.

She laughed. "We just did that."

"Oh. Well, how about more?"

"Sleep, Derek," she commanded.

"Fine," he grumbled. "You're missing out, though."

She snorted, but the sound faded on him. He was tired. It beat at him like someone with a whip. He sighed and let himself drift. The room dissolved into a hum of light and sound.

"Ready, now?" somebody asked.

Meredith whispered, "Yeah," somewhere close to him.

The bed beneath him started to rumble, and he let it lull him. Through barely managed slits just under his lashes, sharp spears of white light rolled past overhead, one by one by one. They pushed him through a door out into a hallway, which wilted slowly away into the advancing blot of darkness.

Time slipped away again.

"How is he doing?" Dr. Bailey said, her voice soft and honey rich and worried. Quiet, as though he were underwater, and she was loitering somewhere atop the ripples on the surface. As soon as he became aware of those syllables, the rest of things came rushing back, and sound popped back into clarity.

A hand was on his shoulder, fingers slipped underneath the blanket and his gown, warm palm against his skin, rubbing back and forth and back and forth in slow, circular motions that made him want to sleep all over again. Meredith. Meredith's hand. He was still on the narrow bed -- a stretcher? -- still buried under all the blankets. His hands were trapped, resting on the jutting bump of bone that marked the connection between his groin and his legs. His throat felt dry and cotton-filled. Water. He wanted water. Something. What was? The fuzz of the morphine and the ache in his skull kept him quiet and breathing and listening long before any semblance of real wakefulness returned to him.

"We have a little traffic jam from all the damned accident victims," Meredith whispered, not really answering Dr. Bailey's actual question. The hand rubbing him switched directions. "We're just waiting for his ICU slot to clear out."

"They moved him before they had it clear?" Dr. Bailey snapped, but it was a quiet, gentle thing, more of a low hiss than a snarl of sound, as though she didn't want someone nearby to hear. Probably him.

"Miscommunication, I guess," Meredith said. "The influx from that pileup has everyone confused."

He swallowed against the ache in his throat and tried to push his eyelids open. Cool air washed against his face in time with shuffling noises to his left. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Air. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Air. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle…

Stop.

A small sound of a feminine throat clearing somewhere behind his head disrupted his lazy trance. Meredith's hand paused and tensed. "Dr. Bailey, I…" a familiar voice said. Not Meredith. Who… Confused. Who? He knew her. He did. Who.

"What," Dr. Bailey snapped. "Is your damned tongue caught? What do you need?"

"A new assignment?" the woman hesitantly answered.

A long pause followed as Dr. Bailey contemplated. He tried some more. Tried to get himself to just… fucking… wake up all the way, but the cloud was so comfortable, and self wanted to languish in it. Really wanted. Desperately wanted. To the point that forcing himself any further out of it hurt.

"The pit," Dr. Bailey answered. "I'm sure there're plenty of people with holes to stitch up."

A rustle of awkward shifting fell into the space behind him. "Dr. Shepherd…" the woman said, her voice small and warbly and… worried and pitying in a way that made Derek want to cringe, just melt away. But he couldn't move, let alone melt. And, suddenly, waking up all the way didn't seem so important. He just let himself hang there with an excuse.

An excuse to not talk.

Things started to drift like icebergs in cold, ice-kissed water. He wasn't on a stretcher. He wasn't…

There.

"Is Dr. Shepherd your resident?" Dr. Bailey began reasonably, somewhere on the edge of his awareness.

"No…" answered the woman.

"Does Dr. Shepherd ever give you daily assignments?"

"No…"

"Then what makes you think Dr. Shepherd has anything to do with your workday unless I tell you he does?" Dr. Bailey asked.

"I…" the woman stuttered.

"That's right," Dr. Bailey replied. "Workday. Where you will be working, Dr. Stevens. In the pit."

"Right. Sorry." The shuffle, shuffle, shuffle of parting footsteps followed. He assumed that Izzie was parting back the way she'd come, somewhere behind him, because no air hit him like before. A small tingle of relief dragged him out of the haze, though he found himself wishing all the while he could have stayed there.

It occurred to him that this was very odd. The air and the shuffling. Where? What?

Something rustled beside him on the right and Meredith began her slow, soothing circles again. He managed a moan, cracking his eyelids open in time to see the blurred color of surgical scrubs against a sea of white and gray and lighter colors. Dr. Bailey stood by his feet and Meredith at his right shoulder looking at each other, not him. His sight was a little clearer this time, at least. Anesthesia wearing off. Hopefully. He swallowed against the dry wreck of his throat.

"We're in… a hallway," he muttered lamely, his voice weak and cracking still. He moved his hand, tried to push it out from under the blankets, but they kept him pinned. They wouldn't want him shifting around too much on a stretcher, he thought, strangely detached. At least they hadn't strapped him down. He was lying on a stretcher in a hallway. A hallway. The buffets of air and the shuffling noises were people passing by. He was lying helpless on a stretcher, not even in a room, but out in a hallway for anyone to see.

Dr. Bailey's eyes shifted to him, and she smiled warmly. He licked his lips, but nothing helped the wasteland in his mouth. And feeling constantly like he needed to pee while Dr. Bailey was standing over him, for once able to look down on him despite her slight height, bothered him. A weakness crushed him that made the phrase, "Help, I've fallen, and I can't get up," slightly less than humorous. He let his eyelids fall shut and tried not to think about anything in particular, which wasn't hard while wading in the dull hum of drugs. Meredith's hand felt so nice against the harsh reality of everything else. He sighed. Exhaustion crept.

"Hey, Dr. Shepherd," Dr. Bailey said, her voice cheerful and mothering, but not insultingly saccharine or patronizing. She descended into a rapid-fire lashing that made the spinning in his head worse, not less, as he tried to follow it. "So, barely two-and-a-half hours out of brain surgery, and you were already macking on my intern again. I don't know which one of you I should be scolding. Probably both. Damned fools, you are. You could, at least, have waited until step-down. But, no, you couldn't manage twenty-four hours of abstinence, even when she has to study, and you're recovering from a traumatic brain injury. Stupidest damn brain surgeon I ever met, for sure."

"What?" Meredith said, a dumb sort of surprise making her sound like she'd been smacked.

"I have eyes everywhere, Dr. Grey," Dr. Bailey said. "I hope you can fit some studying in between the face-sucking. And you, Dr. Shepherd, I hope you can pencil healing into your busy schedule."

"But that was quality macking," Derek mumbled, sighing thickly as he caught up with the rush of words. "Therapeutic."

"It was in the best interest of the patient," Meredith added, her voice loud and firm and not at all meek. "Who happens to be my fiancé," she said. Just the way she spoke revealed her smile. He loved it when she smiled. It made everything seem… perfect.

Even when it wasn't.

He couldn't help but crack a grin at that. He loosed a quiet breath of laughter, though he couldn't muster an actual laugh. "Fiancé, lying right here," he commented. Helpless. The ache in his head stirred a little, bumping into a throb. He'd meant it as a joke, as something happy, but a lump formed in his throat instead, and his smile disappeared.

"Didn't I just say I have eyes everywhere? I was aware, Dr. Grey," Dr. Bailey snapped, ignoring him. "And you," she said. He sensed she'd turned to him, felt her stare poking sharpened scalpels into him. "You're on morphine, probably stoned to high heaven, and you've only been out of surgery for four hours, so I'll be gentle. Congratulations. The ring you two picked is lovely. And I'm very happy for you. But if you don't make sure this girl studies for her exam, there won't be enough left of you for her to marry in the first place because I'll hunt you down and vivisect you."

He swallowed, trying to crack his eyelids open just a little. A slit of blurry light appeared underneath his lashes. He wanted. To reply. She won't fail. Meredith won't fail. His fingers clenched, he sucked in a quiet breath. Something wasn't… Pain built. Building. He didn't want to ask for it, he didn't. It made his thinking so muddled he could barely keep things straight. He realized now that his clarity was returning as the ache in his head escalated, on a shallow incline, but an incline nonetheless.

"Water?" he managed dully against the wreck of his throat. He peeled his eyelids back further, revealing the hallway in full again. Whatever killing glare Dr. Bailey had used to scold him with had disappeared by the time he managed to open his eyes. Instead, she gazed at him with concern, but not pity, which he appreciated vaguely in the mess of all the other ugly, churning feelings. Not pity. She picked up the chart from his bed. He hadn't even noticed it resting there at his feet, propped up against his ankles.

He leaned back against the pillow and sighed as the throbbing became a subtle pounding. The lights were bright. He focused on the smoothness of Meredith's palms as she ran them against him, skin to skin. He didn't mind that she'd slipped her hands underneath his gown. He didn't mind at all. She was the one person he felt had a carte blanche into his personal space. The one person he didn't mind to be there in the midst of this. He blinked slowly against the crush of fluorescence.

Dr. Bailey looked back up from his chart. "You can't have fluids straight up yet," she said, her voice dipping into the warm, mothering doctor voice that, for some reason, he found immensely comforting. "But we could get you some ice chips to try again. Or we could get you a wet sponge to suck on. That will probably make your throat feel better."

"Okay," he said, but it ended in a weak, barely-stifled groan as a swell of pain crashed over him like a wave breaking on harsh crags. He tensed from the tips of his toes to the tips of his fingers, trying to ride it until it settled and he got used to it. But it just kept crashing. One wave would fall back against the surface in a dissolving spray of foam, only to be replaced by a fresh one. Pounding behind his eyes. Knives scraping along his skin.

Meredith's hand stopped and suddenly she was looking down at him, concerned. "More morphine?" she asked.

No, he wanted to say. No more drugs. No, no, no. And suddenly, everything he'd sort of been managing to ignore swept up against him. Home. He needed home. He needed to go home. He didn't want to be there in the hospital, helpless. He was exhausted. Exhausted… His throat hurt. His scalp hurt. His head hurt. He needed to pee, except he didn't. He wanted to sleep. He wanted…

"You damned, arrogant fool," Dr. Bailey said as his sight, which had slowly been repairing itself, was reduced back to a blur under a slow stumble of tears. "You realize proper pain management will get you out of here faster, right?"

He started pushing at the blankets. Maybe he could get up. Maybe. But Meredith managed to still him with a palm splayed against his chest. "Derek," she said softly as she brushed his face. "I'm here. I love you. I know it hurts, and you're miserable, but…" Her voice trailed away, and she stared at him. You have to. At least she hadn't said that part. You have to.

Every time he blinked, and things cleared for a moment, he saw the sharp, clear gray of her eyes piercing into his soul. He stared back, blinking, struggling. If he kept staring at her, things didn't seem to hurt so much. Things didn't seem so fucking dismal. And it didn't matter that he knew he'd fall under the thrall of fatigue and drug-induced mal-coordination if he tried to slip off the gurney and stumble to freedom. He swallowed against his dry, aching throat. She brushed his cheeks with her palms, wiping the mess he was creating away.

"I can't stay here a whole week," he said, his voice thick and twisting. The shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, air of another passing body made him wince. Everyone was seeing this. Him. Stripped.

Everyone.

And that made it so much worse. He sucked in a breath. Home. Sleep. Home. Sleep. He wanted them so badly it hurt.

Meredith blinked, long and slow. "I'll be here," she said. And, in her gaze, he found a blessed sort of silence. The thumps of footsteps passing bled away. The harshness of the lights didn't seem so painful. A heartbeat rushed in his ears. He liked to imagine it was hers. Even while he lay there immobile, shaved, pathetic, she looked at him like he was a gift for her, like he was sexy and perfect and strong, like he had already swept her off her feet and was traipsing away with her down the aisle of some quaint little church with doves and flowers and all that sappy stuff men weren't supposed to care about. He didn't, really. He just cared about the bride, who, in this particular daydream, was dressed in a beautiful, flowing white gown with lace and dipping v-neck that accented her elegant curves. Definitely more important than flowers and birds. But, for some reason, his mind was conjuring the whole thing with the picturesque detail.

"A kiss would be good right about now," he whispered. She obliged with a sexy, sparkling smile. Her fingers brushed his face, light and spindly and sure. Dr. Bailey made a disgusted sound, muttering about fools, but the world peeled away from him, and he just didn't care for a space of moments where their breaths mingled and twined.

He heard a sound behind him, ripping him from the brief rapture he'd found. What? A short person was leaning up on tiptoes. There was a small series of plastic sloshing noises as the intravenous bag swayed against its pole. He realized, too late, what was going on, just as the faintest bits of it squeezed his solid thoughts into a smaller, shrinking pinpoint. A fresh crush of morphine drowned him soon after. The fuzz kicked back up into a roar, the ache lessened, and he was flying again before he had a chance to contemplate his situation much more.

"No," he had a chance to moan, warbled and thick and distorted under everything twisting his mind into knots.

He blinked. Once. Twice. The third time, he could barely keep his eyes open. The fourth time, he found himself resting, breathing, silent, much like he'd started when he'd woken up in the hall, listening to Dr. Bailey's quiet voice. He was tired. Weary to the bone.

"Doctors and men," Dr. Bailey said, distant and growing fainter. "Both make bad patients. Stir in some arrogance, and you have hell on a stretcher."

He would have protested. That was the sort of thing Derek Shepherd would have had a witty comeback for. Instead, time went away again, laughing all the while as it debated which minutes of the next hours it would give him, if any.

Somebody was touching him. Someone who wasn't Meredith. He ached. His mouth tasted like sandpaper. Had to urinate. Still. He grunted as he forced his eyes open. Blurry. Everything. His vision was still a little messed up from the… the anesthesia. Tired. Fuzzy. Couldn't think straight.

He blinked. He was in a different bed, sitting up, not lying down. Tightly wrapped blankets no longer pinned him in place, instead he'd been draped loosely and comfortably with them, and they stopped at his chest. A heart monitor again clipped his middle finger, and uncomfortable, sticky leads trailed down under his gown to their ends at various points on his torso. When had they? They hadn't been there when he'd been on the stretcher. Had they?

But…

He blinked again, and some of the cobwebs disintegrated. The beeping by his bedside marched along in time with his slow pulse, which he was only aware of because, at that moment, he was so inwardly focused on his body. He forced himself outward. Dr. Weller had his hand on the bed controls. Derek hadn't even woken up for the change in elevation.

Meredith. Where? Where was…

"Over here," she whispered as if she'd read his fragmented mind. "You're in the ICU. Everything is fine."

He bobbed his gaze to the side and realized with surprise that she was right next to the bed opposite Dr. Weller, a book sprawled in her lap, yellow highlighter marks streaking the pages. It startled him that he was being so oblivious to his immediate surroundings. Anyone could just… His body twitched before he could calm the upset. His heart trilled into higher gear for several beats before relaxing again. His face flushed when he saw Meredith frown at him.

She clapped the book shut and stood up. The lights in the room were dimmed except for a strip of fluorescence over his bed. A window on the wall behind Meredith, Venetian blinds partially cracked, showed him darkness outside, but he still had no idea what time it was. His watch was gone. They didn't let you wear anything in surgery but the gown.

He had no idea what was going on anymore.

"Dr. Shepherd," Dr. Weller said quietly. "I'm sorry to wake you, but I need to check the incision. Can you sit up a little more for me?"

Derek sat there, unable to do much else. He tried to pull his knees up, to rest his elbows on his kneecaps and his face in his hands, and he managed, but the entire collection of movements had cost him all he had. He leaned forward, but that made him dizzy, and a gasp clawed up from his throat. Meredith caught his shoulders and held him, rubbing in small circles while Dr. Weller did whatever it was he needed to do. There was a light, tearing sound of tape and gauze. Cool air hit his scalp. For a vague, blurry moment, he couldn't figure out why he was in a bed, and then it all came back again.

"Looks great, so far," Dr. Weller said with a smile as he replaced the bandage.

"Glad I'm a good example," Derek said, gritting his teeth, swallowing. He'd been able to joke around the badness before. Joking had made him feel better. But… "Been meaning to write a textbook. Good case study."

That had come out a little more bitter than he'd intended. It felt like a dark weed had been planted and had been slowly growing since they'd forced more morphine down his figurative throat, and something he had been fighting to hold onto had been broken when he'd been roused this time.

Dr. Weller proceeded to do a neurological check as Derek leaned back against the mattress and let his legs straighten out. Dr. Weller made him move and think and speak and cough. The weary clutch of exhaustion coupled with the morphine wouldn't leave him alone, and it took him a while to connect the jumble of thoughts at his disposal.

"What time?" he asked after Dr. Weller departed, leaving him feeling like there were thousands of pieces of himself, and all of them were scattered, broken on the floor.

"After ten," Meredith replied. "You've been out of surgery for about six hours."

He laughed softly for a moment, but it made his head hurt, so he stopped. Only six. Which meant it'd only been about twelve hours since he'd found out his head was a ticking time bomb. Only half a day, and he was already itching with the need to get away, get out, escape scrutiny. To wake up because he felt like it, not because something or someone had interrupted his attempts at recuperation. He wanted to go home. He wanted his own clothes. He wanted to wake up and not be in a different place with new things attached or taken away, new things that told him plainly somebody had been touching him while he'd been oblivious to it. He wanted to not be drugged out of his wits. He wanted to not feel the tube stuck up inside his groin. It was taped to his thigh and his calf so he wouldn't accidentally pull at it. Even the tape itched. He rubbed his nose with clenching fingers, mindful of the intravenous line.

"Can I, please, try some water?" he asked after a slow self-catalog. He tried not to think of it as begging.

"I'll go ask," Meredith said.

He sat there with his eyes closed, mindful that she was moving about, but too tired to follow it. A squeal of moving wheels made him slit his eyelids, and he saw his tray table appear. He heard her whispering to someone else. Two people stood chatting in the doorway. Meredith and… one of the ICU nurses. Probably. Meredith and some woman he didn't know were debating whether he was allowed to have a damned glass of water.

Finally, a cup appeared in front of him. He reached for it. It wasn't water. It was ice chips. But they felt like a soothing, healing elixir against his throat and his parched mouth as he sucked on them. No nausea flared after the first one, so he took a second, and another.

Meredith sat quietly next to him, reading one of her books while he worked on the ice, probably assuming if he was sucking on the chips, he wasn't going to want to chat much, which was true. He sank back against the bed with a sigh when he was finished, feeling like he'd just walked out of a twelve-hour surgery at the end of a thirty-six hour shift. Exhausted. Barely mobile. Thoughts shutting down. But with none of the pleased exhilaration over having done something good for someone. Somewhere back in the fog, he knew he should try and joke with her, try and make things lighter. She was sitting with him, even while he slept. She was sitting with him all the time, and he knew he probably didn't seem as appreciative as he could have. Her presence was his only balm in a sea of discomfort and tired upset.

I love you, he meant to say. Thank you, he meant to say.

Instead, he gifted her with a muffled mumble as his head tilted to the side, and time stole away the words before it vanished from his precarious grasp.

Throughout the night, they pulled him from slumber for this test, for that test, to check this, to check that, until he felt so picked at and prodded at that he found himself wondering more than once if he could get up. He knew how to take the catheter out. And the intravenous line. And everything else was just a matter of pulling. The monitors, anyway. He could…

He could what?

Just the thought of having to get up in addition to dealing with all the personal invasions made him weary, made his head throb. Every time they woke him, slumber came less easily. He found himself lying in a tense, half-dozing state, staring at the world through blurry, dazed slits, waiting for the next invasion as the weed grew and grew and grew. Would they push his bed up again, forcing him to sit? Would they hoist an arm to take his pulse as though it were just a thing to lift and not a piece of him? Slip a hand underneath his gown without permission, measure his heartbeat with a stethoscope or something else? Perhaps, if he took the catheter out, they wouldn't bother to put it back in, and they'd let him up to use the restroom on his own. But thoughts of that much walking crushed him into a weary pulp, and asking for a cup every time he had to go would feel even worse, because then they wouldn't just be taking control away from him, they would be keeping it for themselves.

At least he was becoming a little more accustomed to being so high he was in the rafters. The fuzzy pulse of morphine behind his eyes had dimmed and wasn't quite so obnoxiously retarding anymore. Or, perhaps, they'd just reduced the dosage over time. It didn't matter. It wasn't like he had a clue about it. He said ow, they drugged him. He tried not to say ow, they figured it out and still drugged him. How much? Who knew? The intravenous bag was out of his reach unless he stood up to check it. And standing wasn't going to happen. Not when the mere rebellious thought of it made him cringe with a rolling sort of exhaustion, the kind that swept over him in waves and drowned, drowned, drowned until he was waterlogged and dead to the world with it.

When Meredith shifted in her chair and pulled his hand into her own, silencing the inner turmoil, if only for a moment, he began to realize just how much his thoughts were festering in the grips of his immobility and weakness. She started to rub his arm.

"Derek," she whispered. "You have to stop."

He swallowed, his eyes widening from their droop as he realized he was being scrutinized, that he wasn't fooling anyone about resting. Nothing was private. At least his throat didn't feel so torn anymore after several cups of ice chips. He was pretty sure they'd graduate him to real water soon. And then maybe pudding or something. Pudding. If they'd let him. The festering, darkening whirl returned.

He turned to watch her. She leaned over her book, her midsection covering the words away, not that he could focus well on them in the first place. Text littered the pages, and that was about his limits of discernment at that point. Her uncapped highlighter rolled to the floor. She scooted up the chair until it bumped into the side of his bed, and then her hands began to soothe him in earnest.

He leaned back against the pillows, relishing the warmth, letting his eyelids droop. The room was dim. He left the light on over his bed for Meredith's benefit more than his own. He was tired enough that the glare didn't keep him from sleeping. No, that was other things. Light filtered in from the hallway through the cracks in the blinds. People walked past left and right and could easily see in. Really, though, he'd been lucky to get a room at all. Most of Seattle Grace's ICU wards were just a line of beds with curtains separating them from each other. Some even had temporary metal divider walls. But few were actual rooms served by actual walls.

"I'm tired, Mere," he whispered, his voice still a little warped from the damage to his throat. He blinked. The backs of his eyes stung, and his whole body started to shiver with embarrassment. He'd cried so much by then that the whole hospital probably thought he was some sort of weepy, emotional, pathetic pile of a man.

McDreamy weeps like a girl. McDreamy is weak. McDreamy's urine output isn't up to snuff. McDreamy's heartbeat isn't average. McDreamy has an ounce of body fat where it shouldn't be. McDreamy has a weird, dented, little birthmark on his hip. I pronounce him not McPerfect. Every bit and piece of him was probably on the conveyor belt of gossip being dissected and torn apart.

"Then sleep," Meredith said, yanking him from the spiral of his thoughts. "I'll be here."

He felt selfish. There were plenty of people with serious diseases or injuries who were bedridden for far more than a week. Incurable or not healing. Wouldn't ever get out of the hospital again. Didn't have a beautiful girlfriend sitting by them, supportive, all the time. Plenty of people like that, and yet he couldn't stop. Couldn't stop thinking horrible, twisting thoughts, and that made him feel even weaker. Just deal. Deal with it.

He blinked, sniffled, tried to stop. Tried. He did. But everything, it seemed, was beyond his capabilities. Everything. A film of tears blurred the scenery into the vast, muted splotches of an impressionist painting. Wetness spilled down his cheeks.

"Do you need them to up the morphine dose, again, Derek?" Meredith asked.

"No," he said. "Please, don't let them. I'm not… It's not… Please."

Begging. Begging. He was begging.

Derek Shepherd didn't beg.

Except with her. But that had been… Different.

He flailed out and grabbed the bed railing that still stood up against the mattress. Meredith had lowered the one on her side. He pulled himself over onto his side and drew his knees up as far as they would go, mindful of the wires and other things he didn't want to be yanking on him. Yanking. Telling him he was attached, whether he wanted to be or not. Twisting and turning to avoid it all was a sad affair that left him drained and panting and feeling weaker than he'd ever felt in his life. At least when he'd crashed, he'd had discernable injuries keeping him from moving. This was just… an aching fatigue that gnawed him to the core, leaving him raw and damaged. The room faded into darkness for a minute.

"I want to go home," he whispered, and he felt even weaker. "Please, Mere. I can't do this. I can't."

Can't.

The word crushed him like a collapsing building.

Can't.

Footsteps. Someone shuffled in the room, and he curled up even further. Great. Just another thing to advertise for Nurse Debbie. McDreamy's crying again! Poor, homesick baby.

Can't.

"Can you come back in a few minutes, please?" Meredith said.

"Sure," said the voice of one of his ICU nurses. Her name was Francine. He knew her. He'd worked with her. He'd smiled and wished her family well over Christmas, despite his melancholy at the time. And now she was seeing him crumpled up in his bed, crying over something that was so stupid it was pitiful.

He wanted to go home.

For a march of seconds, all he heard was Meredith breathing behind him, watching him. And then the bed dipped, the sheets rustled, and her warm length settled against his grief-shivery back. "Derek, you've been drugged. A lot. A whole, freaking lot. It's bound to make you feel awful on top of everything else," she whispered into his neck. Her hand slipped over his torso and gripped him around the waist.

"I'm here, though," she continued. Her soft words calmed his churning, twitching body. "And tomorrow, things will be better. You'll be out of the ICU, and they won't be checking on you every ten minutes. You're doing great, despite what you may think. You just had brain surgery, Derek. You just had brain surgery, and you somehow managed to be flirting with me less than three hours later. You're strong to me. You're very strong. None of this is permanent. Nobody will think less of you. And nobody is gossiping. Nobody. You're respected around here, Derek. You're respected, and people look up to you as a great teacher and a friendly guy, and the only thing bouncing around the hallways regarding this particular thing is concern. Our engagement is everywhere. Our sex lives are everywhere. But your state of health and your feelings about said health are not. People know there are lines, Derek. And I love you. Not that that has much to do with brain surgery, but I do. I really, really do."

He sighed, his chest stumbling over it and breaking it up into a short train of exhalations. "They're not?"

"Nope," Meredith said, her whisper laving the nape of his neck where the bandages stopped. "Cristina has been prowling the nurses' stations doing the search and destroy mode thing for me to make sure, but she hasn't run into anything other than a new pool about our wedding date. Most people are thinking next spring, by the way. I wonder if we're allowed to bet? Because I sure as hell don't know. It's not like I'd be at an unfair advantage. Anyway. If there's anything about your surgery, it's way buried in the SGH underground."

He drew a shaky hand up to rub his face. He briefly tangled with the nasal cannula. Another thing to remind him. But he forced his thoughts away from that. Meredith. Meredith was warm, and next to him, and breathing, and whispering, rubbing her scent all over his pillows and his sheets. Lavender curled against him. Her hands gripped him, squeezed him. And it was what he needed. He let it be all that he needed. He let it.

He didn't need to get up. He didn't need to be cutting. He didn't need anything else to feel whole.

He didn't.

Right?

"We have an underground?" he asked, his voice rough, not from his throat, just the tangle of emotions writhing in every broken crevice of himself.

"Doesn't everything?" she replied, stroking the line of his torso from his armpit to his hip.

"Are we talking literal," he said, trying, clawing for the levity he'd managed earlier, "Like London, or…"

Meredith snickered into his neck and kissed him. "Mind the gap!" she said with a pitiful rendition of a British accent with all the wrong letters stretched and warped. She nipped her way down to the bump of his clavicle, brushed the gown away from his shoulder, and kept going as far as she could, kissing, leaving hot, wet trails of soothing evaporation behind.

He closed his eyes and sighed at the attention. He'd been touched and poked and prodded and moved and shoved and turned all night, but this? This felt like it was resetting the balance, and he yearned for more, not because it had to do with sex, but because it had to do with Meredith, touching him, reassuring him that not all skin-to-skin had to send a shiver of disgust rolling down his spine. It was… relief. The purest form. Like when he'd discovered she hadn't died in the bomb explosion. Or like when she'd taken him back after all his crap, despite his mistakes.

He'd been stuck in the bed for hours, and aside from handholding and rubbing, she hadn't gotten this close. Perhaps she'd been afraid to upset all the wires and monitors, which was understandable. But he'd done that on his own when he'd rolled over. He'd given her a place to lie down that wouldn't disrupt anything. He should have tried that earlier.

A moan rumbled through him as she slipped her hand underneath his gown and her palm flattened out across the skin just underneath his navel. Her touch warmed him all the way to his spine. A shiver of sensation ran through him, and she lay there, holding. A sobbing breath fell from his lips, but relief had conceived it, not pain. He panted as the tears finally halted, blinking, wishing he were strong enough to do something, anything to return the gesture. Exhaustion hammered him from all directions, but it didn't matter as much anymore.

"I love you, Mere," he said, the sound of it barely escaping the grips of his lungs. The space in front of him blurred, but only because he'd let his eyes lose focus. "I keep forgetting to say it out loud today."

"It's okay," she said. He felt her smile as she branded his skin with another soft, soothing kiss. "I figured you were saving up for a good one or something."

A soft breath of wry laughter fell from his lips. He winced as the pressure stabbed him with a sharp ache behind his eyes. But it faded quickly. "That wasn't a particularly good one," he said, accenting the sentence with a frustrated sigh.

"You just had brain surgery, and you're miserable," she said. One of her index fingers snaked over his ear underneath the oxygen line. The touch was soft and snaking and light, like she'd gathered up a feather to tease him with. His eyelids drooped as she moved and slipped her hands down against his chest, underneath his gown. "I'd say that makes it pretty good. Points for working in a subtle apology, too. And I'll give you extra credit for fighting a gallon of morphine to say it to me and not some random orderly."

He stilled. "I haven't told an orderly, have I?"

"No," she said with a brief laugh that made everything seem lighter. "You're sort of the anti-Meredith on all this stuff. Quiet and stewy rather than loud and happy. I think it's something about the latest drug cocktail, because you were pretty ecstatic about stuff before surgery."

"Quiet and stewy?" he said. He couldn't help but chuckle. Just a little. A tiny thing. Stewy? It sounded like a nickname for Stewart. Not a state of being.

"Yeah," she said. "But you make such a sexy pouter. Hard to keep myself off you when you're sad, you know."

He couldn't stop the smile that drew his lips back. He sighed and let his eyelids fall shut. "Being sad gets me sex?" he said. He wasn't in the mood for it. At all. Not right then. But it was something to look forward to. Something to make his wishes to go home seem less pitiful.

She kissed him and squeezed her fingers, gripping him tightly. There. She was there. She was hot and real against his back. Breathing. There. "Possibly," she whispered, dusting him with another light kiss.

"Hmm," he grunted noncommittally. "So, if I cry some more, do I get kissing?"

Tired. The exhaustion that'd been pounding had finally knocked through the door he'd shoved between himself and it. Conscious thought dripped out of him, and his muscles slowly relaxed. Sinking. He was. Sinking.

"Get some sleep, Derek," Meredith said from far away. "I love you. I'll be here."

And time once more wandered out of his awareness, replaced by twisting, narcotic dreams.

When he woke up again, he couldn't figure out what was different. He came back to himself slowly. Sound first. His heart monitor beeped softly. The fluorescent light that bathed his bed in ghastly white hummed. The noises of civilization drifted in through the open doorway. Footsteps. Voices. Clackity-clacks of typing. Wheels, turning. He focused on his immediate surroundings. Somebody was there, standing at the foot of his bed, staring. Breathing. Shuffling. Pages flipped.

At first, Derek thought the mysterious observer was a nurse. Meredith sounded wholly different, more delicate, smaller. That was when he realized what was strange. No Meredith. Her scent lay faintly on his pillow, but the soft sound of her breathing, the rustling and squeaks of her highlighter didn't accent the air, not even in the muted way that said the sounds were happening, he just wasn't hearing them all yet. No, this breathing was heavier. Fuller. Coming from a larger body than Meredith possessed. Larger. Male.

Derek forced himself to the surface, opening his eyes before he was really ready to greet the world. A shock of color slammed across what had been comfortable darkness. He blinked, and things started focusing. He blinked again, and he found Mark paging through his chart with a vague frown on his face.

"Stop," Derek said, his voice back to something hoarse and scratchy after lack of use. The soreness in his throat had, at least, faded to a faint tickle of irritation. "Those are mine."

Mark looked up. His face colored with a slightly more peach tone. Almost a blush, but not quite. Caught.

"Hey, you're awake," he said in useless observation, clearing his throat in an awkward gust of throaty, rumbling sound. "Hey, man." He put the chart down without comment into the flap at the end of Derek's bed and wandered around to the seat where Meredith had spent most of the night.

Mark collapsed into it and leaned forward onto his elbows, which he caught with his knees. His eyes ran up and down the length of the bed, widening slightly. The chair squeaked on its wheels as Mark shifted in the seat.

Derek searched the room with his gaze. Meredith was gone. Meredith had said she would be there. But she was gone. An irrational club of fear that he hated himself for conjuring bludgeoned his mind before he could formulate something reasonable. In the bathroom. Grabbing some coffee. Stretching her legs.

He swallowed. Of course, her disappearance was something reasonable. Snacking. Catnap in an on-call room. Shower. It--

"Meredith's out in the hallway on her phone," Mark replied, answering the unspoken question Derek hadn't gotten up the energy to ask yet. "Passed her on the way in. Sounded like she's talking to Mom. She probably didn't want to wake you."

"Oh," Derek said. He reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The intravenous line followed his arm. His forearm looked thin and something about the offending tube and the itchy surgical tape just made him look… sick. Regardless of its purpose.

He closed his eyes and sighed. His mind felt like cotton. His mouth felt pasty. At least the throbbing ache seemed less… Much less. His mind was clearer than it had been all night, and still no ache. Either he'd developed a ridiculous tolerance to morphine in a short period of time, or they'd reduced his dosage. A lot. Maybe they would drop him down to codeine as soon as he was dealing with solids again.

His mind was clearer, but the exhaustion hadn't lessened whatsoever.

"What's the biggest mistake you've ever made?" Mark asked.

Derek twitched toward the sound. He'd forgotten Mark was there. Forgotten. Maybe he wasn't thinking quite as clearly as he would have liked… "Mmm?" he muttered, rumbling against his weakened vocal cords. He wanted Mark to go away. But he was tired. He didn't have the fight in him to even try to get Mark to leave. Mark never left without dragging his virtual feet while he mumbled every protest from reasonable to pathetic.

"You told me trusting me was the second biggest mistake you've ever made," Mark said. "I want to know what the biggest mistake was."

Derek heaved a breath. What? When had? When… Things were not making sense anymore. Maybe he really was muddled. He blinked his eyes back open. The sky beyond the windows was a deep cobalt color with just a hint of brightening. How long? When…

"What time is it?" he asked, confused, his voice sluggishly composing itself as his thoughts raced.

"5 AM, Derek," Mark said. And then he grasped Derek's hand.

The touch made Derek cringe away as his enemy but friend shattered the fragile concept of personal space, a concept Derek had been clinging to since Meredith had lulled him to sleep again, but he didn't have the will to argue it further, and the grip stayed after Derek settled, because Mark held on like a leech. Like a parasite. If there was one thing Mark was good at, it was not going away when he wasn't wanted.

Derek leaned back against the pillow and breathed through his nostrils like a startled, frightened animal. He was stuck. Stuck in the bed. And Mark wouldn't go away.

Mark's hand was warm. And the look on his face was pleading. Begging. Begging in a way that had earlier reduced Derek to tears when he'd been forced to do it. Mark didn't beg, either. And something about that made Derek not hate the forced intimacy so much. Because Mark was reduced to begging, and inversely, that made Derek feel a little powerful.

He needed powerful right then, desperately, no matter how rotten it made him for stepping all over Mark. Power was ambrosia to him when he couldn't even walk. Power. It was a vague feeling, tingling, wispy. Just at the tattered edges of his conscious thought. But it was enough to make Derek not struggle anymore.

Enough to give an inch.

"Please, it's…" Mark said, his voice cutting deep and low and weeping, despite the relative stability of his gaze, stable except for the rabid, fierce stare that begged. Begged Derek. "Please, answer me."

Derek blinked. What had been the question again?

"Your biggest mistake," Mark prodded, reading Derek's dazed behavior like a cheap novel off a shelf.

"Leaving Meredith," Derek replied with only a bumbling moment of hesitation as his brain started working again. Muddled. Definitely muddled. Now that he was required to have a conversation, the sluggish, disjointed tumbling in his head resembling thinking became readily apparent. "Not signing the papers the first time."

Mark's eyes widened before narrowing. He swallowed. And he cleared his throat. "Oh," he said. He looked up with a smirk after he'd recovered from his surprise. "You're really sort of moonstruck, aren't you?"

"And tired, Mark." Derek sighed, letting his eyes fall shut. He wanted his hand back.

_It's okay, man. Don't worry._

This wasn't like the last time. The blur began to take him away again. Meredith was fine. But on the phone. Not there. Mark had his hand captive. And a nurse was due to check his vitals and change his Foley bag again. He could tell from the uncomfortable feeling in his groin, more uncomfortable than usual, anyway. Sleeping seemed like a good escape. Sleeping seemed…

Necessary.

"When you met her," Mark said, piercing through the fog like a boat on the open water. "Was it like when you met Addison?"

Derek snuffled back awake. "Met?" he asked, trying to keep track of things. Trying. Facts kept slipping through his precarious grip.

"Meredith," Mark clarified.

"It was never like that," Derek said, not bothering to open his eyes. Meredith not like Addison. Not like. That was a fact that made it through the morphine unscathed. It was an internal law.

"What was it like?" Mark asked.

Derek's first response was something nasty. Why are you prying? Why are you trying to tease me? What's with the torture?

But Mark… Something overlaid his usual, flat, aloof tone with vulnerability. Something about his whole demeanor seemed off. Uncharacteristic. He wanted to understand. He was curious, and he was asking. Asking like a four-year-old. What's this mean? What's that mean? Why is the sky blue?

And Derek was too tired to snap anymore.

What had he been saying?

"What was it like?" Mark prodded again, his voice slow and patient, not nasty, not laughing at Derek's mental floundering.

A moment, bright and colorful and real, materialized loud and singular amongst the cacophony of other things.

_I was sitting there with my world stopped, and I didn't even know what her name was. It was like a… Like lightning._

"Lightning," Derek replied, relishing the sudden mental silence as he focused on that moment and breathed. Meeting Meredith had been like lightning. Meeting Meredith had been…

Coming home.

Taking a breath.

Living again.

Another silence sent him drifting, floating, loose, on the edge of sleep, skimming it like a hand reaching down from a boat to break the surface of the water below. He knew Mark would pull him back again when he figured out his next line of interrogation. Thinking in between, trying to anticipate the next question was too much like real thinking, and it just made things hurt again when he'd been rather enjoying the not hurting. Sleep.

"Remember freshman year of college when you met that girl?" Mark said, distant, like he stood on a cliff across a deep ravine. His voice widened into the rumble of thunder as Derek was yanked away from the fog and back into the hospital room. "What was her name? Cassie?" Derek blinked as the memory coalesced, sluggish piece by sluggish piece. Casey. Casey had been a sophomore. Lovely woman. But… Mark continued, "Tall. Curvy. Black hair. The one with the big ju--"

"Casey," Derek corrected before Mark could finish, mindful of Nurse Francine, who darted from monitor to monitor, checking him quietly. He hadn't even noticed her approach. She lifted the wrist Mark didn't have a hold on and listened to his pulse quickly. She smiled.

"Morning, Dr. Shepherd," she said cheerfully. "You look like you're feeling a little better. Do you need anything?"

"No, thanks," Derek replied. Except for Mark to go away. But Francine wasn't supposed to be a bouncer.

She nodded, speaking cheerfully as she bent down at the foot of the bed. "All right," she said. Plastic crinkled, and the awful feeling in his groin died down into just a subtle needing. Needing to urinate instead of NEEDING. He couldn't help the sigh of relief that tumbled from his lips. "I'll bring you something soft to work on in a little bit," Francine continued. "Maybe pudding? Or Jell-O. We'll see how that goes. Maybe we can put you on the regular meal rotation soon."

She stood up, bag in hand, grinning, as though eating real food again was supposed to be the best news in the world. Derek closed his eyes against the sudden, bitter sting that made it hard to keep his eyes open. He blinked. But it didn't go away.

"Right. Casey MacIntyre," Mark said with a soft chuckle as Francine trotted out of the room. "You said that was like lightning when she kissed you in the alley behind the bookstore."

Derek loosed a noncommittal breath that could have been a laugh if he'd given any of himself to it. But he hadn't. He didn't feel like laughing. "I remember," he said, his tone low and grating. He blinked, trying to ease away the burn in his eyes. He reached up with both hands to wipe it all away. Mark unexpectedly released him without comment.

Derek leaned away, looking to the side. Away from Mark. God, he didn't want Mark to watch him fall apart. He sucked in a breath and forced it all back down, blinking, blinking, blinking. The cloud of morphine he'd been so certain he'd overcome seemed cloudier, sludgier. Perhaps he'd been in denial before. Or just not thinking hard enough to notice how fucked up he still was. Because now his mind was positively scattered. Like bits of confetti caught in a torrent of wind. He cleared his throat, wincing as the action sent a jab of pain back through his skull.

When he looked back, he found Mark watching him quietly. But Mark didn't comment. Didn't ask, "Are you okay, man?" Didn't say a word to illustrate he'd just seen Derek have a minor breakdown. And Meredith had helped. Earlier. She'd helped. The upset tumbled away and didn't seem to linger like a dark, coiling thing.

"And Addison," Mark continued as if the little episode hadn't happened. "When you met her, that was lightning, too. You said she was the love of your life."

"Yeah," Derek said, relief pouring through him when he saw that Mark was going to let it go and not drill into him with questions. No more drills. "I said that."

Mark shook his head. "You fall hard and fast, man. I don't know how you do it."

"This thing with Meredith isn't like those," Derek said. Meredith not like Addison. Certainly not like Casey. He could cling to that. He could… think about that. Because it wasn't thinking. It was innate.

"It isn't?"

"After Meredith struck me, I never got up again," Derek said, trying to explain it in simple terms that Mark would understand. Simple terms he could piece together in the din of fragmented everything. "I'm not just me anymore. I have… I never…"

His explanation fell apart, and a roll of aching overwhelmed him. But he didn't. He didn't want to ask for more. It made him feel worse to know he couldn't even control his thought processes, let alone his body. He could live with ache and a bit of mental tangle. He didn't want painless stupor.

What had he been saying?

"So," Mark said, pulling him back, back, back into the conversation. "What were Addison and Casey?"

"What?" Derek said, blinking. Why couldn't…

"You said meeting Meredith was like lightning. What were Addison and Casey?"

Definitely not lightning.

"Carpet static," Derek replied tiredly, grabbing at the first cogent metaphor he could think of. "But I was too naive to know it at the time."

"Oh," Mark replied, but it was clear from his tone that something had made him wonder. Confused him. But Derek couldn't think of any other way to put it. And he wanted to sleep again. He wanted…

He sighed and sank down into the bed as far as he could relax himself to go. "I'm tired, Mark. Please." Stop poking. Leave me be. Let me sleep. Go away. Can't think.

"Okay," Mark said. Derek twitched in surprise and sighed, sighed, grateful that he didn't have to fight.

For a moment, Derek drifted again. Drifted loose. Near to sleeping. Near, so near.

"Can I… Stay?" Mark asked. "I have some notes to write, and I…"

Derek jerked at the rumbling intrusion into the tired, drugged roar, but… Mark. Asking. Not Mark telling. Asking. Derek rested, eyes shut, thinking. Dr. Bailey had been saying something earlier. Something important. What was? Right. "Quiz Meredith on plastics," Derek said.

"I… okay," Mark said, agreeing quickly despite his obvious confusion. "Okay, when she comes back in, I can do that."

Things began to stretch. Derek felt like he was dangling at the end of a rubber band. Sounds dimmed. His awareness of his surroundings shrunk to a pinpoint. His head dipped to the side.

"Derek?" Mark whispered, snapping him back.

"Mmm…"

"How do you know the difference between carpet static and lightning if you've only felt one?" Mark said.

It was a loaded question. Because Derek, as blurry and jumbled as his thinking was, had enough faculties left to realize this was a question about Addison. His ex-wife. Mark's adulterous toy. Or maybe not really a toy, if the question was any indication. Addison.

Maybe the morphine dulled his caring. The realization about the nature of the underlying subject didn't overwhelm with anger or anything of the sort. He was tired. He wanted sleep. He wanted to not need sleep every five minutes. Everything else seemed inconsequential next to that. Mark didn't get it. Mark wasn't going to get it. Why waste energy grinding his molars over something that would never happen? Why waste… hope?

The room slogged around him like molasses. Sleep. Go back to sleep.

Mark didn't matter. Addison didn't matter. Mark and Addison didn't matter.

"If losing her would wound you, it's carpet static," Derek mumbled. "If losing her would cut something out of you that could never be replaced, it's lightning." And despite it all, he managed to smile in a way that made his nerve endings tingle.

Meredith was definitely lightning.

Mark laughed after a long pause, perhaps to piece together the sleep-slurred words. "I forgot how sappy you are."

Derek grunted, sniffed. "I'm drugged."

"And sappy."

"Shut up, Mark," Derek snapped. But the words had no bite. Just tired resignation.

"All right," Mark said, quiet, also resigned.

"Jesus," Derek said, slurred, mumbling, "I'm not dying." Annoyance tangoed with the exhaustion crushing him down. He felt Mark's piercing stare. And his constant surrendering was too weird to let pass. Mark was like a rhinoceros. Always pushing. Always knowing and forcing everyone around him to know what he knew with a roar and a charge. Mark suddenly acting like a feeble mouse confused him. Because that wasn't Mark.

Was it?

"You were," Mark said. "And I… You were. I'm… trying. To listen."

Truth. Perhaps he would have left if Derek had bothered to ask instead of just thinking it.

"I feel like shit," Derek confessed, the words tumbling from him, wheezy, breathless, almost like a spill of quiet sobs. It was a crushing admission. And the rest of him slipped away into the mire.

Sleep.

"I know, man," Mark replied from far away, his words strangely comforting. "It'll be okay."

Derek didn't comment as his anchor finally came loose, and time parted company once again. His last coherent observation was that Meredith was very good at plastics questions. The soft mumble of Mark's complicated queries intermingled with her whispered, confident answers. The words hit his eardrums like a soothing wave and soon fell into silence.


	41. Chapter 39

The house was quiet, but not silent, like someone stuck in the valley of stillness between one breath and the next, the moment when heartbeats and rushing blood seem more like a solid whisper than a subliminal whine. The walls thumped occasionally as many old, settling houses tended to do. Rain splattered on the roof in a soothing drumbeat. A clock ticked from the mantle, tallying the seconds as they departed into oblivion. Dreary grayness hugged the space outside the windows, but the peace made it seem blissful, not wearying.

Izzie and Alex were both at work for their first shifts officially not as interns. Meredith had the day off. Her neurosurgical stint would start the next day. She pulled a rainbow-colored afghan around herself and settled deeper into the cushions on the sofa. They squeaked and shifted.

Derek was sleeping. He'd been sleeping a lot since she'd taken him home. She tried not to worry that he seemed to spend more time in bed than out of it. Anesthesia did weird things to people. There was a certain level of predictability to it, but reactions could be anywhere from mild to extreme even on the healthiest of patients. It wasn't necessarily abnormal yet that he seemed to be this tired.

Everything would be fine.

She closed her eyes and relaxed to the pattering on the roof and the splatters on the window. Rain. Even indoors, for some reason, it smelled like rain. Wet. Earthy. Rain meant change. Change. Sweeping change. It was always symbolic in books and movies and stuff, and for good reason. Something about washing everything away and making it look new.

She was getting married to Derek. Change.

She loved Derek and wasn't afraid to shout it from the rooftops. Change.

She was a second year resident. Officially on Derek's staff as a budding superstar of legendary proportions. Change.

Change was…

Good.

She smiled, listening to the raindrops, letting her gaze wander into the streams of water sluicing down the windowpanes and get lost there. Gray. Swirling. Relaxing. The living room was cozy and… Good. She loved having the day off. After spending a whole week at the hospital with Derek, vigilant, constantly there for him, she'd been exhausted and only too happy to spend some time at home. That desire hadn't waned as the next week had dragged onward.

She opened her novel along the spine, which was cracked and worn to the point that the title was illegible. Flakes of remnant paper still clung to the outside of the glue strip, but it was only a matter of time before they gave up their denial and stopped their useless clinging. Seattle rain and locker beatings had killed it. She'd read the book many times, though the pages strangely still harbored a faint new paper smell. Fantasy Lover. It was her favorite. She didn't know why she liked it so much. It was about a Greek god cursed into a book as a love slave for all time, summoned out of the book accidentally by a modern woman, resulting in much hijinx and sexy fun. They fell in love and worked to set him free from the goddess who had cursed him. Even just summarizing it made her blush. She hated it when people asked her what she was reading. But it was bubblegum for the mind. It wasn't supposed to be deep or mind-altering. It was supposed to be good clean fun. Naked Greek gods were definitely fun.

She'd made it about forty pages by the time she heard movement upstairs and about sixty pages before she saw him. Derek came slowly down the stairs, gripping the railing so fiercely his knuckles were white. He wore a t-shirt and some wrinkled boxers. His feet were bare. And, despite the ugly crescent scar that wound across his scalp, despite the barest dusting of new hair growth that marked where his gorgeous curls had once resided, her breath caught. He would always be sexy to her. Always.

"Need some help?" she called when he paused on a step to breathe. She immediately regretted it. Stupid, stupid, Meredith, she scolded herself. She hated watching him struggle, and the results of the worry leapt off her tongue before she thought much about them, sometimes. She'd learned over the past two weeks that he needed to be left alone unless he asked. And he did ask. When he needed help. He did. With her, anyway.

It made her all soft and gooey inside that he, arrogant, I-can-do-it Derek Shepherd, felt comfortable asking for help from her, but the point was that he did. When she offered, though, he didn't take it so well. It was like he thought of it as being branded weak. And, usually, offers of assistance left him dark and scowly for a while until his wounded pride rebuilt itself. She'd resigned herself to the fact that he would ask if he really needed it, but that he wanted to struggle through it if the help wasn't absolutely necessary. It was just one of those things that made Derek Shepherd who he was. And she loved him for it even when she thought, at the same time, that he was the stupidest man ever. Because stupid mannish don't-help-me-unless-it-was-my-idea or not, he was hers. And they were getting married. Eventually.

Derek Shepherd was hers. And they were finally done with all the amnesia crap and all the surgery crap and all the hospital-y badness, so she could actually enjoy it. At home. Alone. In their own bed. Derek Shepherd. Hers.

He looked up and smiled, not seeming to mind, for once, that she'd offered him assistance before he'd asked for it. It was a beautiful smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes and peeled his lips back from his teeth. "I'm fine," he said, and from the strength in his tone and the bounce of cheer that hopped off the pair syllables, she could tell that he truly meant it.

"You're happy," she said as he moved toward the sofa, navigating with careful, calculated steps.

"Mmm," he mumbled as he collapsed next to her. The cushions dipped under his weight, and they curled up together almost instinctually. Derek and Meredith. He practically purred in her ear, "I am happy." He ran his fingers over the fuzz on his scalp and sighed, relaxed, deep, content, and rumbly in that way that was solely him.

"Not to be a killjoy or whatever," she said, unable to stop herself from breathing him in. He smelled clean, soapy, and warm, with just an underlying hint of the part of himself that was all over his pillow and their sheets and his clothes. The part that was just Derek, the part that made her smile when she slid up against him at night and fell asleep against his shoulder. She gathered up a tent of his warm, slept-in shirt between her fingers and sighed as the scent of him relaxed her from the tips of her toes to the warm fuzzy space behind her heart that had started throbbing as soon as he'd sat down. "But why?" she continued. She hated to ruin a good mood, but it was too… weird. "You've been…" Moping. Tired. He'd not really been taking all that well to the enforced time off, the constant exhaustion, the need to be helped with things that he normally would have been able to do without even thinking about them. Sometimes, just taking a shower wore him out so badly he needed help walking back to the bed. She'd helped him through it, trying to do the supportive thing, trying to be there. And he did ask for help. Derek Shepherd asked for help. And that was… That was just…

She was trying. And he asked for help. Even if things weren't excessively happy, they were at least not bad. But this? This cat-caught-the-canary Derek who sat next to her now seemed positively incongruous with the not-bad Derek he'd been recently.

"We have the house to ourselves," he said, wagging his eyebrows suggestively as he leaned in to kiss her neck, leaving a trail of slippery fire behind as his tongue weaved its way up under her jaw line. The hairs on her neck prickled as he drew a sharp gasp from her. He added with a low rumble, "Plus, my mother finally went home, and there are no interns loitering about except you."

"Residents!" she corrected.

He laughed into her hair, his soft, heaving breaths bathing her skin. "I want sex, Mere," he whispered against her ear. And then he kissed her again. And again. And again. He slipped his hand underneath the waistline of her knit pants, found the edge of her underwear, and pushed underneath the lace into the warmth between her legs. She arched into him and moaned softly as he kneaded her depths.

"You're not too--" She gasped. "Tired?"

"I want sex," he replied. "We haven't had sex in over two weeks."

"Two weeks." She panted as he pushed her up a slope of needing, building, building until her insides hummed. She tilted back into the pillow. "Three days." Pant. He cupped his hand under her leg, squeezed, and stretched her against him, bringing her knee into his armpit. "Seven hours. I think. I'm not sure what time zone we were in for that last one."

He drew back to grin at her wolfishly. "We need sex," he said with a nod.

She giggled. "Well, if you—" Her words came to a halt as he stilled against her. "What?" she said.

"Hmm," he muttered in a sort of how-about-that? flummoxed tone. He pulled back, a frown creasing his features. He sniffed like he'd caught wind of something distasteful and sharp.

"What?" she asked again, suddenly concerned. She breathed in, slow, sampling, but nothing struck her as unusual. The house smelled like… the house. Lived in. Old. But clean. She'd taken a shower just two hours ago. It couldn't be her. Maybe he'd just been clearing his nose, and she'd misread him?

Or maybe he really wasn't up for this. He did like to push himself too much. But all the mental babbling spiraled away when he disentangled from her and leaned forward over the edge of the couch, silent, elbows resting against his knees. He rubbed his forehead absently, almost like he was aching, but it wasn't… It wasn't that. He wasn't headachey-Derek. He was… different. Weird. Weird-Derek. She didn't know this Derek. She'd never seen him before in her life, and the unfamiliarity unsettled her.

"What's the matter?" she tried when the silence continued.

"It shouldn't be raining," he said, his voice breathy and tinged with the slightest hint of panic. He sucked in a breath.

"What? Raining… What?" she prodded, rubbing a splayed palm up and down his back. His muscles were tense, bunched, and all semblance of cheer had just… leaked away from him like water through a sieve. Weird-Derek sat next to her. Silent.

"Derek," she said, her tone growing sharp, serrated edges as it wandered up in pitch. "What is it? You're scaring me. Does it hurt? Are you sick?" His body rocked with the motions of her soothing palms against his back, pliant, unresisting. The rain splattered against the windows and the roof, fat plopping noises intervening in the awkward silence.

"This is wrong," he said.

"What's wrong?" she demanded.

His jaw started working in a repetitive chewing motion, but he didn't answer her. His breaths quickened. And suddenly one of his hands shivered with movement, enough to make him draw it away from his face. She almost thought he'd been bitten by something until she realized the movement hadn't stopped. He stared at his flexing, jerking fingers with a look of horror that told her something was wrong. Really wrong. His nostrils flared. Then his whole arm started twitching.

"Derek?" she prodded. His eyes widened. He leaned back against the sofa, but his arm wouldn't stop moving. It shivered and flopped uselessly at his side. And for some reason… For some reason she knew that he wasn't answering her because he couldn't. Not because he didn't want to. His jaw kept working, chewing like he was pounding a piece of gum to smithereens, and he stared blankly at the ceiling while his right arm jittered.

Recognition sank in. Uncontrolled, repetitive movement of the mouth. Sudden fear and dread. Strange smells. Shaking, but localized to a limb. She felt a strange, sinking sensation, like her innards were dropping out through the floor, leaving her hollow, abandoned, and sick. She blinked, and time seemed to decelerate into a dull, slow throb like the pulse of an athlete's heartbeat. Second. Pause. Second. Pause. Second. Pause.

She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. "Derek, it's okay," she said, trying to soothe him even as her heartbeat threatened to pound right out of her chest, very much unlike the whole athlete thing. This wasn't happening. This wasn't. This couldn't be… No.

"You're having a simple partial seizure," she managed to say, even as her mind raced with denial. "It'll stop. It's okay. It's going to be okay. Just ride it out." She rubbed his chest, trying to avoid his twitching limb while at the same time reassuring him. He was still awake. There was a good chance he knew exactly what was going on and just couldn't talk to her. The terrified look in his eyes as he stared unblinking at the ceiling chilled her to the bone. He knew. He knew what this was. And he was there, stuck, watching it happen, unable to do anything about it.

"It's okay. I'm here. I'm here," she said, somehow managing to keep her voice low and calm and soothing as she glanced at her watch to start timing the seizure. If this lasted for more than a few minutes, she was going to call 911. Can't fall apart yet. No good to fall apart. Ohgodohgodohgod.

The world stopped with a snap.

She jumped back when his whole body stiffened into a block of rigid, unyielding muscle and bone. His jaw muscles bulged, and a weird, unnatural, pitchy groan vibrated in the space between them as his lungs seized up and forced air past his vocal cords. The rain spattered down the windows, pat-pat-pita-pat-pat, and for the space of about ten seconds, Derek was immobile. For a split moment, she didn't get it. She just didn't. And then the doctor in her snapped awake.

"Ohmygod," she sobbed, the words condensing into a single blurt of panic, but Derek was beyond hearing her as she leapt up from the couch and desperately started pulling the coffee table away. Everything unclenched at once. He rolled forward off the couch and started twitching spastically at his joints barely a second after she'd gotten the table out of the way. She bolted toward the couch, yanked the afghan she'd been using from the cushion as soon as her fingers brushed the soft hint of yarn. Kneeling down on the floor, she shoved the crumpled heap of it under his head. Then she backed away.

She stood there, watching, biting her nails. Tears splotched her vision. Not supposed to get in the way. Not supposed to get in a seizure-victim's way. Let him finish it. Tonic-clonic seizure. Tonic-clonic. Tonic-clonic. The words hit her brain in a rush that ran together into a wail so shrill it seemed like a banshee had taken her mind hostage.

"Derek," she said uselessly as his body rhythmically jerked, and the thumps of his limbs and hips hitting the floor and the side of the couch drowned out the rain. She timed it, though each moment passing seemed more like an eternity in purgatory. Thump. Thump. Thump. Rustle. Thump. Thump. By two minutes, she was sobbing. The skin on his face was starting to turn blue. His lips were turning blue. And then it all stopped. His eyes slipped shut, and Derek was a silent, still, gangly heap on the floor with a spreading, dark, wet stain on the front of his boxers.

She descended on him, her hands shaking. "Derek, oh, god, Derek," she muttered, leaning over him to rip a pillow from the couch. She settled it under his head in place of the makeshift afghan pillow. She rolled him onto his side into the recovery position as she sobbed. His body didn't protest at all. His body. God, his body. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be… Pinkish drool dribbled slowly from his mouth. She wiped it away with her fingers and then onto her pants, sniffling. He'd bit something. Bleeding, she thought numbly. He'd bit something in his mouth, and he…

No, this couldn't be…

This was exactly what he'd been afraid of. Exactly what… Oh, god. Derek was going to lose his career. She ran her fingers over his scalp, mindful of his healing incision, petting, loving, even as her hands shook so badly she probably looked like she was in the midst of her own seizure. "I'm so sorry," she whispered at his unconscious form. "I'm so, so sorry."

Hospital. She would take him… When he woke up a little. When he could walk. He would be really groggy for a few minutes when he waded back to consciousness. She-- Maybe it was something mundane that could be fixed. Maybe. No. No, this was wrong.

His torso started to twitch. Tight, clipped breaths that began as something shallow and airy gathered momentum when his vocal cords started contributing. Then he was laughing. Laughing. Laughing. Chortling. He opened his eyes as his whole torso was racked with spasms of glee. He curled inward on himself. "What are you sniffling about?" he said as he wiped tears of levity away. His color hadn't quite returned, and he looked like something… animated. Not living.

Snap. The cheer vanished, his face was a stone mask, and he met her eyes with a hateful, cold gaze that made the blue in his irises seem like flecks of ice chipped from a glacier. "At least I didn't die," he said, malevolent. "Right?" Wrong. It wasn't Derek staring at her then. It wasn't Derek at all.

"But you're fine," she said. "You woke up, and you're fine."

"Doesn't it just suck when you're wrong?" he replied. His eyes closed, and, like someone had flipped his switch, the life slipped out of him.

"But you're fine!" she shrieked as she jammed her fingers down onto his neck. Nothing. But… No. No, this wasn't happening.

No.

"No wedding, I suppose," Ellen said sagely from beside her. "Will you be paying for the funeral instead, dear?" She looked down at Derek's still form like it was a spot of grease on the carpet. She had a spatula in one hand and a bowl gripped in the curl of the other arm. She stirred a bowl of chocolate chips and dough, stirred, stirred, stirred. Hypnotic, staring. "He's so like his father," Ellen added warmly. "Would you like a hug?"

"He's being very neglectful," Chief Webber said as he walked in from the kitchen. He kicked Derek's leg. The body jerked and resettled. "Definitely not Chief material like that."

The front door slammed open. "I'm here!" Cristina said as she tromped into the living room. "McDreamy died," she observed, looking down at the body on the carpet, and then she brightened. "Do you need help lugging the corpse?"

Meredith woke up wet and screaming, slipping along the tiles as she flailed for something, anything to hold onto. Her fingers scrabbled along the soap-scummy grout. The rough cement floor scraped her bare skin, rubbing everything raw. Water pelted her. Her hair draped over her eyes, and she was blind and gasping like a fish tossed aside on the shore.

The water had gone cold, and she reached to turn the spray off as the shaking slowed. The handle slipped in her hand at first and squeaked as she turned it. The water streaking down from the shower nozzle slowed to a drip, drip, drip that sounded hollow and huge in the quiet shower stall. Nothing stirred. Not a sigh, not a footstep, not a single sign of life besides her own breathy, whining panting. The small shower room was empty. Doctors were busy being doctors, and she had the space to herself.

Only a minute. She'd sat down over the drain, leaning up against the wall, letting the hot water pelt her, sluice down her skin, and she'd closed her eyes for a minute. Just a stupid minute. She thunked her head against the tiles and breathed, starting to shiver as the wisps of remnant steam hovering around her like a gossamer cloak started to shift and disperse. What time was it now? How long had that minute stretched? She clenched her arms around her knees and sat there, sobbing, breathing, just…

The nurse had come to take Derek's foley catheter out and move all the other wires away for his first attempt at walking. He'd flushed up into a shade of red she'd never seen on him before. He'd asked to take it out himself, but they'd refused. He was impaired. On drugs. And he could damage himself, which the hospital wouldn't allow on its watch, or so the nurse had scolded. No way, they'd said. He'd seemed too embarrassed and tired already to press it further, but he'd asked in a quieter voice if Meredith could do it, and they'd rebuffed him again, saying no one was allowed to work on family members. Family members. Engagement. Everywhere.

Despite the awful hue creeping across Derek's face, she hadn't been able to stop a small smile, but it'd quickly faded when Derek had gotten even redder. He'd practically sunk into the bed, and the look of defeat that had sprawled across his face had made her heart break. He'd never explicitly consented, and he'd clutched at the blankets like they had been his last shred of privacy threatening to shrivel into dust.

In that moment, she'd frozen. She'd wanted to run to the Chief and beg him to let Derek have special privileges, to just… let things slide. Just that once. But she hadn't been able to. Not after she'd bitched at him for being unprofessional. She'd wanted to smack the nurse out of the way and just do it herself regardless of the rules. Derek wouldn't beg for it. He'd tried to ask once, and he'd been turned down. But, hell, she would. She'd do it for him. She had no problems fighting for him. But then she'd thought about how it would make him feel to have her snarling on his behalf, and she'd decided that the best thing she could do for him was just leave and give him what little privacy she could. Before she'd flipped the blinds shut as far as they would go and shut the door, she'd caught him staring blankly at the ceiling as the nurse peeled the blankets away and started pulling at his gown, but she'd forced herself to keep moving. There were times when handholding wasn't a good thing.

She'd not had more than a nap for well over twenty-four hours at that point, awake while crying, worrying, panicking, trying to be supportive all the time, studying, focusing, being strong, wandering, breaking down, proposing, euphoric, bouncing back and forth between the extremes like an abused ping-pong ball, and she hadn't slept at all since the unfulfilling, neck-twisting hour at his side in the post-op room. Shower, she'd decided. Just a quick one to refresh her.

She stood, wincing at her aching muscles, sniffling as she hobbled out of the shower. Shivers ran through her body, though, whether they were attributable to the emotional monsoon she'd just experienced, tiredness, or the fact that she was freezing, she had no idea. Fine. She told herself. Derek was just fine. He'd woken up. He was talking. He was freaking upset and being a bad patient about his pain management, for which they'd ended up not giving him one of those self-regulator things for his morphine. But being a bad patient was good, right? Because that meant he felt good enough to protest. Or stubborn enough. Or at least not too weak to utter a word one way or the other.

She'd freaking told him she was going to deal with her fears, and she was going to do it. He was on anti-epileptics and would be for several months at the very least. He wouldn't seize, and if he did, they would deal with it. Seizing was so much better than him being dead, at least… At least to her. Derek might not agree, which made the whole thing sort of intertwined with her issues on the dying thing. She didn't ever want him to have his own ferry moment. He…

No. She wasn't going to dwell on that crap unless it happened.

He would be fine. He'd gripe about the drugs because he was Derek, but he'd take them because he was Derek, and preventing something that would wreck his career as a surgeon would be something he'd be willing to suffer for. And he'd be fine. Because he was Derek. Derek was always there. She had to beat him away with a stick when she didn't want him around, which, really, she didn't expect would happen again anytime soon. Not after the past week and a half. Derek was always there. He found her crying in closets and fixed things. He pulled her up from drowning and made her want to live. He whispered to her at night when she was sad, he laughed with her when she was happy, and he needed all that from her right then, and she would damned well give it to him. Derek wasn't going to die. And Derek was fine.

She nodded to herself.

Fine.

But his lips had been so blue… And he'd…

_He's so like his father…_

A sob tore through her as she toweled off and then sat on the bench, hair wet and cold against her neck, fluffy towel clutched between her clenching fingers. She closed her eyes and sighed. Tiredness rolled over her like a wave. Being strong sucked sometimes. But she'd promised. She'd promised she was going to be there. She'd promised she would deal. And she was freaking. Going. To deal.

This was ridiculous. She was acting ridiculous. She was exhausted, and she was being ridiculous. Stupid, ridiculous, hallucinating, nightmare-y, tired Meredith.

She heaved a sigh and stood, dropping the towel to pull on a fresh pair of panties, gray knit pants, her holey Dartmouth t-shirt, and some rubber flip flops she'd gotten for two dollars at the dollar store, which, really, seemed wrong, because… hello. Dollar store? She'd thrown her scrubs into the hospital laundry. She wouldn't need them.

By the time she exited the showers, she had some semblance of normalcy to her again. Her hair hung in damp, cold tendrils around her face, but she'd brushed out the tangles. She was clean. And things were fine.

There was a crowd in Derek's room. Two nurses. Francine and Latoya. A taller, well-built, redheaded man, face ablaze with a freckly fire, stood next to Mark by the side of Derek's bed. And Derek himself sat with his socked feet dangling over the side of the bed as he stared at the floor, quiet. His hospital gown looked rumpled, and the ties at his shoulders were twisted in a new, haphazard way that said they'd been redone. He was free of all the leads and monitors. Only the intravenous line remained attached. The nasal cannula sat behind him in a coiling pile on his pillow along with the finger clip to monitor his heart. Those would probably be replaced whenever he lay back down. He sat crumpled with a strange posture, gripping his stomach sort of like he'd been punched in the gut, his spine bowed into a slouch. Combined with the bandage that swathed his head, he seemed… Not well.

The redhead, a man she'd only seen in passing before, looked up and smiled as she pushed through the door. "Dr. Grey," he said. "Hello. I'm Martin. The physical therapist. They sent me down to make sure Dr. Shepherd starts working for his keep. We were just about to see if we can stand up and walk to the door and back." He seemed cheerful enough. But the whole 'we can' thing seemed so condescending that she wanted to smack him. Or maybe she was just being stupid and overprotective and ridiculous.

Meredith bit her lip. "Okay," she said, disturbed at how sullen Derek looked. He hadn't even looked up at her to smile or say hello. She couldn't decide whether it would be good to say anything or not. There were far too many people in this small room, and she didn't want to… She didn't want him to be any more embarrassed than he already seemed to be.

Guilt speared into her. She shouldn't have spent so long in the shower. She'd only intended to be gone for ten minutes to refresh herself and give him some privacy while they'd gotten rid of the catheter, but, instead, it'd turned into forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes that hadn't been all that refreshing, because she'd stupidly allowed herself to drift off. And he'd been stewing, and now he was stuck in a room full of people, and she couldn't talk to him.

"All right, Dr. Shepherd," Martin said as he turned back to Derek. "Can you try and stand up for me?"

Derek slid against the edge of the bed. He gripped the sides of the mattress, and for a moment, he hovered. He brought his eyes up finally, and what she saw there broke her heart. He thought he wasn't going to be able to do it.

Derek never thought that…

"I'm tired," he said. It was the closest to, "Can I try later?" that she ever thought he would utter, but Martin crossed his arms and smiled encouragingly, just not… not getting it. Not getting how precarious things were.

And Derek was so… He'd been upset, been quiet and stewy yesterday, but he'd been mostly dealing. At first, mostly dealing. Things had slowly been going downhill. She'd had to climb into bed with him. He'd cried, which had really twisted at her. But he'd been hanging on. He'd been hanging on, but now it seemed like he'd let go. In the forty-five minutes she'd been gone, he'd let go of that little piece of dignity he'd thought he still had, that little piece of himself that no one should have been able to touch. She should have stayed. She should have--

"You need to start moving again, Dr. Shepherd," said Martin. "You don't have to go far, but you should be walking whenever you're up to it."

Derek sighed and didn't reply, but his face flushed. Derek never blushed this much. He was… Broken. He'd gotten broken. Forty-five minutes. Broken. Fury boiled down her throat. She resisted the urge to run to the side of the bed and try to offer him some support. She had a feeling that, under all the scrutiny, doing that would just make him feel worse.

"Come on, man," Mark prodded. "Being out of the bed will feel better."

Derek swallowed. "What would you know about that?"

Mark flinched, and Meredith blinked. What was she supposed to do? Referee? Comfort Derek? Support? Yell? Leave? She was at a complete loss. Forty-five freaking minutes. She cursed silently at the dull roar of tiredness creeping behind her eyes.

"All right, ready?" Martin prodded, ignoring the undercurrent of tension.

Derek closed his eyes for a moment and nodded. The tips of his toes hit the tiled floor as he slid the rest of the way forward, he breathed, and then his full weight went down onto the floor as he sank into a flat-footed position. He stood, almost like any other day, like he'd been sitting in a chair reading a book and had decided he simply wanted to get up. He stood, on his feet, strong, not swaying, looking perfectly at ease despite the gown that barely covered him, the bandages, the intravenous line trailing to a stop against the skin of his forearm, all details that said he should be very sick, not standing there like everything was perfect.

"Excellent," Martin cheered. The nurses also offered their cheerful support.

Mark added a smirky, "Doing great, man."

Meredith felt a swell of elation, only to have it crushed when the illusion collapsed. Derek didn't speak, didn't say anything under the swell of virtual pats on the back. He inhaled, long and sharp, and the sound of air being sucked into his lungs broke his silence. He took one wobbly step, and then another, and then his arms curled around Martin, sliding up over the redhead's shoulders in a quiet rustle of movement. It was a gesture that would have seemed intimate if everything wasn't so… so wrong. Derek fell against the man, flattened his body against him, and he let out a woeful, suffering moan. Martin crumpled just an inch in surprise before recovering.

"Good," Martin said as he juggled Derek's weight to steady him. Derek responded like some sort of puppet with the strings cut, and for a moment, there was nothing in his legs that resembled conscious support. "That's good," continued Martin. "You're doing great. Take a breather if you need it. Take your time."

Meredith's eyes stung, but she bit back on it, bit back so fiercely her face started to hurt. Derek didn't need to deal with her sniffling right now. Derek could barely stand up. Derek had been embarrassed already, and now he'd collapsed into an embrace with a man he barely knew because he couldn't stay on his feet on his own, and that… Her gaze darted to Mark, but Mark looked as pale and unsettled as she did, which was no freaking comfort whatsoever.

She shook her head and walked over. Derek's eyes were closed, and he panted softly against Martin's shoulder. "I just need a minute," he said, his words almost sobbing. His hands rubbed and clutched at Martin's shirt, like he was fighting to hold on and hated himself for it, kept releasing his grip or something.

"Take your time," Martin assured him, standing there as a support. "This is why I'm here, you know."

Mark cleared his throat. His gaze wandered between all the faces in the room, all staring at Derek, waiting to leap to his aid should he start to fall, which, really, at this point, seemed sort of like an inevitability. Finally, Mark's stare came to rest on Meredith. They shared a look for just a moment. Their eyes locked. Locked, and understanding passed between them. Get them out. Get everyone out.

"Mom's flight will be in soon," Mark said, which was a complete lie. "I should go pick her up." Ellen's plane wasn't due to touchdown until early afternoon, and it was only tennish. She'd booked the soonest available direct flight and had been waiting on stand-by at the airport for every direct flight before then without luck. She'd been frantic that she couldn't get out to Seattle the day before, but she'd calmed down a little when Meredith had told her Derek had come through surgery just fine. Fine… "I have a post-op patient I'd like to check really quickly, though, if you ladies would be nice enough to help me?" Mark continued. "Looks like Martin has things under wraps." Francine and Latoya smiled as Mark gave them his best, flirty, sexy grin. They ate it up. And soon the room's crowd had reduced by three.

Meredith turned to Derek in the new silence. "Derek," she said quietly as she splayed a palm against his heaving back and rubbed him. "Are you…" Okay? Do you need help? Do you want to lie back down? She had no idea what to say. What was safe to say. What wouldn't do more damage than good.

"I can do it," he snapped. Except he didn't let go of Martin. He sucked in a panty, moaning breath. "I'm… I just need a minute."

"Okay," Meredith said quickly. "Okay, Derek."

"Take your time, Dr. Shepherd," Martin added.

After a few moments, Derek pushed away from the larger man and shakily reached for the IV pole. His fingers wrapped around it like it was the only thing keeping him from surrendering to the pull of gravity, and he took a step. And another. Three steps toward the door. The pole squeaked after him on its wobbly wheels as he dragged it next to him, partially as an obstruction to his progress, partially as his only lifeline as he wandered into a sea of daunting, open space.

He stopped midway to his goal and sucked in another breath. His skin was flushed, and for a moment, everything stalled as he took a break, his whole body quivering with the exertion. Martin kept close, ready to offer support. "Take your time," he kept saying. "It gets better the more you do it."

Derek took a deep breath. His body swayed, almost like he was going to take another step. He flinched. Just a little. His grip slipped down an inch, and his torso dipped as his legs started to buckle. It was a precursor to a collapse that never came. He dug in with a force of will that made the air in the room almost seem to vibrate. He recovered from the fall in less than a blink, his skin deeply red as he snarled, "I just need a minute," to no one in particular. His whole arm shook, bicep bulging, and the hand he gripped the IV pole with turned an unnatural shade of white.

"That's fine," Martin said. "Take your time. Push yourself, mind you, but don't kill yourself," he joked. Which, really, where Derek was concerned, was a frightening sort of concept.

But Meredith found herself beyond caring about Martin or about Derek's stubborn will. The flinch… it had been enough to send her into a downward spiral of nightmare. She saw him collapsing to the floor, seizing, his limbs thumping quietly against the floor as his body jerked and twitched in a haunting, rhythmic loss of control, his lips and face turning blue as he went cyanotic.

_At least I didn't die. Right?_

She couldn't stop the whining, tiny sob that fell from her lips. She covered the space between them in seconds and wrapped her arms around him, not really holding him up, just… reassuring herself. His skin burned with heat through the gown. Tension gripped every muscle in his back, making it a stiff board of skin more than the curving, supple thing she loved to run her palms against when they made love, and he didn't smell like Derek at all. He smelled like antiseptic and medicine and surgical tape and hospital, slightly overlaid with the sort of odor that came from stewing without showering for nearly twenty-four hours, not unpleasant yet, just thick. He smelled… sick. It was the only way to describe it.

For the barest moment, he relaxed into her. His free arm snaked around her almost like it was an instinct. He breathed, ragged and desperate against her hair. Briefly, it seemed like he was breathing her in, sucking down the scent of her like it was a lifeline. Then he stiffened, and all illusions of the moment being in any way okay fell away. "I don't need help," he said, his expression darkening.

"Shut up," she snapped, which she regretted about a nanosecond too late to stop herself from saying it. He flinched, looking rebuffed and smaller somehow, like he'd expected her to say, "I know you can." Or to somehow reaffirm that he was still the tower of strength she found herself leaning on all the time. Derek Shepherd. Her Derek. Her knight in shining whatever. Knight in shining scrubs, she corrected absently.

Another stab of guilt tore through her at the crushed look on his face. She wasn't being supportive. She wasn't being strong. Derek's self esteem seemed to be a wheezing, gasping, rotting thing, struggling for breaths, and she was being an absolutely pitiful self-esteem pylon girl right then. But she couldn't. She couldn't bring herself to let him stumble and suffer. I'm scared because you're hurting, she wanted to say, but she would save it for later when they were alone.

And she was scared because she'd seen him dead. And she needed to feel him.

"This is for me," she confessed softly.

He stared at her, swallowing, a war being fought between various expressions. Embarrassment that the journey from the bed, to the door, and back to the bed, was an epic struggle taking minutes, blocks of minutes, not seconds, and that he had an audience to witness him fighting with his own body to get such a simple task done. Acceptance that if Meredith wanted to help that badly, he would let her even if it killed him inside, because she was Meredith, and because she was that important to him. Anger that she wasn't letting him do this by himself, particularly this one time when he already felt like he seriously needed to prove something. Love that would never go away no matter what battle he was fighting. Exhaustion that crept and tugged and twisted at him. Homesickness. The desire to crawl into a hole and not come out again until he wasn't sick anymore.

She reached up and brushed her palm against the sharp swath of stubble on his face. His eyes watered. He didn't tell her it was okay. But he didn't tell her to go away, either. Another stab. That was what he'd done with the nurse when he'd been too embarrassed to beg. She unclenched her fingers, but only managed to draw away an inch before he was dead and blue on the floor again in a flash. She swallowed and forced the nightmare away, but she couldn't bring herself to let go because he was there, and warm, and suffering, and just... Derek. She was being a clingy, death-fearing freak.

Stupid, stupid Meredith.

"Please," she said, grasping. Grasping for anything to say that would make this seem better than a blatant affront to his virility. "You can do this on your own. I know you can. You're Derek, and you can. But I want to take a walk with my fiancé. And this is a pretty momentous walk, don't you think?"

Seconds ticked by. He stood, silent, clenching the IV pole. She rubbed his back as he stared at the door like it was at the top of some mountain, up a thousand steps to a summit in Tibet. He blinked, inhaled, straightened, and went back to the task of walking without further comment.

She made a point of letting him do all the work no matter how much it hurt to restrain herself. She didn't really hold him up. She just touched him, her arm snaking around his waist. By the step that brought them struggling into the doorframe, the tears that had been loitering when she'd insinuated herself into his first walkabout had begun to meander down his cheeks. He stopped, leaning against the frame, resting his forehead on the cool metal, red-faced, trembling.

"All right. That was an excellent start!" Martin said, clapping his hands excitedly, seemingly oblivious to how, to Derek, this wasn't an excellent start. It was a catastrophic failure. "Do you want help back to the bed?" And the wrong words kept on coming.

Meredith flinched. The world had shrunk to the very small space between her body and Derek's, and she'd actually forgotten Martin was even in the room.

"No," Derek replied softly. "I just need… a minute."

Martin grinned. "Okay. Take your time," he said again like some sort of freaking broken record of physical therapy catchphrases. "After this first time, it should come a lot easier."

People walked by in the hallway, darting glances at him from time to time as he stood there for a long crawl of moments, breathing, quiet. He just stood there. Crying.

"Derek," she whispered, but he flinched, leaning, almost curling inward.

Broken. She should have stayed and made the freaking catheter nurse just leave. She should have… Never. Taken. A shower. God damn it.

"Come on, Derek," she prodded, shifting out into the hall, shielding him from the view of passersby. He didn't need stares peeling off what was left of him, bit by bit.

He cleared his throat. Something low and weeping and shamed crawled into the air from his lips. He sighed, but it was a broken, hitching thing. His eyes shut.

She leaned up against him, crawling into the window of personal space he'd left her. She rested her cheek against his trembling hand, which was wrapped around the doorjamb so tightly it looked painful. She rubbed his back and whispered, "Derek, I'm here. I'm scared out of my mind, but I'm here. I know this sucks for you, and I know you want to do this by yourself, and I know you can, but I want to help, and I want you to be okay with it, or else I'll just stand here like a spaz, crying about being a crappy pylon… whatever. If I can do the not-running thing, which, really, is a pretty freaking huge feat for me, the Archduchess of Avoidia, I think you can do the being-helped thing. Don't you? It's big and scary, but you're Derek Shepherd. Big and scary are your Frootloops."

Seconds ticked by. His expression didn't change, and with his eyes closed, she couldn't tell if he'd even registered what she'd been saying. Fifteen heartbeats thudded in her ears, drumming, loud, tense, before he finally replied.

"My Frootloops?" he asked, his tone low and grief stricken but… tinged with amused disbelief. And amused anything was better than the silent, trembly thing he'd been about thirty seconds ago.

"Yeah," she said, smiling. "You eat them for breakfast. Well. Someone eats them. Not you, Mr. Gross Heap 'O Muesli. Er. Okay, that wasn't my best bout of poeticism..."

He sighed. "I think the literary world can do without that one, Mere." He sniffed and went quiet again, tears still streaming down his face. He breathed, breathed, breathed. His fingers dug against the doorjamb harshly enough that something squeaked, sweaty skin over cool metal. His shoulder shook like he was fighting some internal battle. He looked back at the bed for a moment, blinking, eyes red, face red. His lower lip quivered.

She watched his thoughts as they passed across his face. He didn't want to leave the relative comfort of the doorjamb. He could stand. He'd gotten the standing thing after the initial upset. It gnawed painfully at him, made him tired, and hurting, and shaky, but he made up for the weakness with his will, and Meredith had a feeling he would be able to keep the standing thing up until his heart gave out, a muscle tore, or something inside him really broke. But to him, as long as he was standing up in the doorframe, he wasn't crippled. It was the walking that threw the stone at his glass house.

He stared at the bed. Ten feet. And it may as well have been Connecticut. Leaning forward into the frame, he whispered, "Help," more like a sob than anything else.

"Okay," she said, and on the way back to the bed, she did. He wrapped his hand over her shoulder, she snaked an arm around his waist, and just like he'd done when he'd had the concussion and the amnesia, when he'd been dizzy and couldn't balance himself correctly, and when she'd found him in the shower, upset, he let some of his weight fall onto her. It was a reaffirmation of sorts, but also a redefinition, because this time, it wasn't just them in the room, Derek remembered everything, Derek was a sliver away from snapping under the unending weight of I-can'ts and had no reserves left for saving himself after a ding or two to his ego, and they were freaking engaged. Everything about it was different, but it illustrated the same concept, a concept that Meredith still couldn't quite get over her amazement of, no matter how many times she witnessed it. In those moments, something cemented, and just like in her stupid nightmare, they came to an understanding even though neither had spoken about it directly. He would ask if he needed it, and she would try not to offer. It was a compromise she could live with.

They both moved together, shuffling as she bore some of his exhaustion on her own shoulders, on her own feet. They made it back to the bed, and he collapsed like he'd been waiting for that moment with every drop of himself that was left. As soon as he arrived at the point where he could forgive himself for letting go, he let go. He lay on the bed, panting, staring up at the ceiling, not moving at all.

"Excellent work for a first time," Martin said. "I know that was frustrating, but it will get better in leaps and bounds. That was perfectly normal. Whenever you wake up, your assignment is to at least stand up. I'd like you to try to walk around some more if you think you can, but not without supervision for at least another day. All right?"

Derek didn't reply, so Meredith turned and smiled. "Sounds good," she said, trying to get him out of there, trying to get him to go away. Martin got the hint, glanced at his watch, and excused himself to head to his next scheduled patient.

She turned back to Derek. Headachey-Derek. She identified him before he even opened his mouth. Derek turned his tired gaze to her and stared with a crushed look. He was still crying. He hadn't stopped at all. And he didn't even attempt to clear it away, which was disturbing in its own right. He didn't thank her, tell her anything about love, or smile as she went over to help him put the nasal cannula back on correctly. His eyelids drooped, and he seemed sort of like he'd been thrashed in a fight or something. Not visibly wounded, but the exhaustion and hurting rolling off his skin was an awful, coiling thing.

What made it worse was when he said in a wispy voice, "Can you find Francine? Please?"

Morphine.

He'd spent all night begging them stop dosing him so heavily with it.

And now he was asking for it.

She swallowed. "Yeah, absolutely," she said, rubbing his chest. It was nice to be able to touch him and comfort him without running into all the leads and things. But…

Broken.

She found Francine at the nurses' station, and the morphine problem was quickly taken care of. Derek watched Meredith with a dull, suffering stare as it went into the line. Then it hit him, his gaze spaced out, and finally he slept. For a few minutes, she debated studying, but quickly gave up all pretense of attempting it, and she climbed into bed with him. He didn't stir as the mattress dipped. His breaths came long and even, deep and racked with tired surrender. As she snuggled up against his warm body, his eyes drifted open.

"Mmm," he muttered, surprised, upset, confused, drugged, but too tired to do much more than whuff a disquieted breath in protest. That startled her more than she wanted to admit, too. Somehow, he'd always seemed to know the difference between her and everyone else, even with his eyes closed, even when he was stoned beyond measure.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. "It's just me," she whispered into his mouth before pulling back. "I'm still here."

He blinked. His gaze narrowed and softened as recognition swept his features. Slowly, he shifted, enfolded her in an embrace that made her feel warm and safe and loved, even though he didn't say it. He nodded off soon after, his head dipping to the side to rest atop her crown.

She lay there, listening. Was this what he'd done when she'd died? Just lain there, listening to her? She was so freaking tired, but closing her eyes seemed scary. When she did that, all she could hear was his breathing, and though, in her head, she knew it was Derek, he just… He seemed so much not like him. He didn't smell like Derek. He didn't act like Derek. He just… wasn't. Wasn't Derek. Except he was.

She rubbed his arm, watching her fingers mow down the soft, dark hairs. "Please don't let this kill your spirit," she whispered into his chest while he slept, clinging to her in a way that made him seem desperate for something, even in slumber. "You really are doing so great, Der," she added.

Maybe it would be better after he'd slept some. Maybe after they stopped filling him up with so many medications. Maybe. But somehow, she didn't think so.

She'd seen people die by degrees, watched her mother fade off into nothing but a fleshy collection of vague recollections.

_Doesn't it suck when you're wrong?_

What would help? She wanted to bemoan him for being a stupid man about all this. Just a man. Pigheaded. Stubborn. But after a week and a half of headaches, dizziness, crippling anxiety, stress from his memory loss, and an inability to focus, being told he needed surgery, suffering through one of his greatest personal phobias, waking up in constant pain, exhausted, being touched and viewed and monitored by people he didn't know and people he knew too well because he had been stripped of the ability to take care of himself, and then being forced to get on his feet and walk when all he probably wanted to do was crawl under a blanket and hibernate forever… She just couldn't blame him. He did have character traits that made it infinitely worse. But she had to admit that even she'd have been a mess, too, at least by the walking thing. She actually found herself marveling at his ability to keep going, to pick himself up again, and again, and again.

She rubbed her hand in circles against his chest, hoping it would reach through his dreams and comfort him. Somehow.

What the hell would help?

_I just want my things._

She stilled as the beginnings of an idea formed. It would… Well, she'd probably end up exhausting him further. But… Wouldn't it be worth it? Exhaustion he could fix with sleep. It was his state-of-mind that needed to be repaired more than anything.

She pushed up off the bed. His hand slipped limply down against the mattress, collapsing without her body to keep it up. She leaned in and kissed his temple. "Derek, I'll be right back. I swear," she whispered into his ear. He didn't budge. Dead to the world, in this case, was truly just… gone. For a minute, she flashed to her nightmare, but she shook it off. He was fine, and breathing, and she would fix this. Then she'd let herself deal.

Finding Dr. Weller wasn't too difficult. She'd started growing accustomed to his patterns after working all day with him and then having to deal with him so much regarding Derek's surgery. Dr. Weller was taking notes in the cafeteria while he sipped at a café latte. He didn't seem to be an office-dweller, much.

He smiled when he looked up at her, and she flopped down into the seat next to him. He gave her the okay after just a little convincing when she explained what she had in mind. And then she was off to the supply closets to pick up some plastic and some tape.

She grabbed stuff off the shelves, determined. This was going to work. Because it had to. Because she had no idea what else she could possibly do for Derek that she wasn't already doing. And he needed it.

She arrived back at Derek's room, almost bumping into Francine, who approached with a wheelchair. Step-down. They were moving Derek to step-down. Even better, she thought. She crammed her things into a bag on the back of the chair while Francine roused him. Her plan would work just as well after they'd moved him.

"Dr. Shepherd," Francine said. "Time to wake up for a bit." Derek snuffled awake after a bit of prodding and reached clumsily with his fingers to wipe his eyes. He blinked, turned his head, and stared dully, not even bothering to ask what was wanted of him, like he knew he'd just be told or moved or whatever, and he couldn't bring himself to protest or want to understand anymore.

Meredith finished wrestling with the bag and went to the other side of the bed, sitting down beside him. A heavy clot of morphine spaced his gaze, giving him a glassy, not-all-there countenance. She almost wondered if he recognized her. He gave her no smiles or whispers or hints that he did.

"Derek, guess what," she said excitedly. "No more ICU. They're moving you to step-down."

"Okay," he said, his tone dull and flat, slightly absent as his gaze wandered the ceiling.

Meredith bit her lip at his lack of enthusiasm, at the lack of excitement. She'd hoped at least that would perk him up a little. Being in step-down meant the nurse wouldn't be in his room every freaking minute, and he could get some sleep and some privacy. That was definitely perk-worthy. Wasn't it?

But, no. Instead, his stare slowly found the wheelchair, his eyes slipped shut, and he looked even worse. He breathed a little sigh that ripped her heart to shreds, took a mallet, and beat the shreds to pulp. He didn't want to get wheeled around in his flimsy gown, bare-legged and revealed, pushed through a crowd of people he knew, painfully aware of the fact that he couldn't walk more than a few steps on his own. She got it. She did.

She grabbed his hand and started rubbing it, at a loss. Because they needed to move him. That hadn't been part of her plan, though, at first, she'd been willing to work with it. Biting her lip, she gazed back and forth between crumbling, scary Derek, and Francine before resolving herself. He'd only get worse. If they forced him into that chair, she didn't want to know what the result would be when he was already this bad.

"Francine," Meredith said. "Is this room scheduled for use in the next hour or so?"

Francine shook her head. "Traffic is relatively light today. We have a few spare beds elsewhere already. Why?"

"Can you let me take him up?" Meredith asked, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn't take this discussion personally, but she had a feeling he would. Discussing what to do with him like parents debating how best to baby-sit a four-year-old. But this was worth it, she told herself. It would be, anyway. "I'll have him out of here in an hour or less. I promise."

Francine regarded her for a moment. "It's not policy for you to be moving him, but…"

Meredith inhaled sharply at Francine's hesitation. She was on the edge. She could be pushed. She… What would do it? "I'm thinking sometime in the spring, maybe," Meredith blurted.

Francine's face lit up. "Really?" she said.

"Yeah," Meredith assured her. Derek would like the spring. Right? He wasn't protesting. That was assuming he had managed to follow the conversation at all. She glanced back at him, but he had his head turned, and he gazed toward the window with a glassy stare that told her he was communing in his own depressed and sluggish reverie. She took a breath. "Let me stay, and I'll give you a hint on the month later." Just as soon as I freaking have a clue myself, she told herself.

Francine smiled. "Well…"

"Please?"

"All right," Francine relented. "He's not due for any medications in the next hour, but if he needs more morphine, I expect you to call me. You're not supposed to be doctoring family. It's the new no strikes policy the Chief finally pushed through last month. Honestly, I'm glad to see some formal rules, what with all the horrible things that have happened lately wi--" Francine blushed and stopped. "Sorry."

Meredith smiled. "No doctoring. I promise. I cleared this with Dr. Weller first to be sure it was all right."

"Okay," Francine said. "He's due in room 409."

"Thanks," Meredith said. As Francine left, Meredith shut the door behind her and locked it. The blinds were still drawn from earlier.

She returned to the bed and leaned over him. Derek was resting, apparently having nodded off again when no one had proceeded to prod him for something. His breaths rasped in his chest, even with the weight of sleep, but not deep with it.

"Derek," she prodded gently, rubbing a circle against his chest with her palm, trying not to jar him.

A pained, twisted moan tore out of him, a jumble of syllables that could have been, "Please, leave me alone." But the morphine and sleep robbed him of coherency, and beyond her educated guess, she couldn't be sure. He opened his eyes, sluggish, just like before, and stared. Her face reflected like tiny, wispy ghosts loitering in the black of his pupils. But it was he who seemed like the ghost.

Not Derek. Broken. Tired. Crushed.

"Ready to get up?" she asked, trying to keep the smile pasted on her face despite how dispirited he looked. She unhooked his intravenous line and capped it off. The taped catheter still stuck against his wrist. They couldn't take the whole hour, not when he was still exclusively on drip medications instead of pill form. But thirty minutes wouldn't hurt. He didn't even seem to notice she'd unhooked him from the line.

He eyed the wheelchair and sighed. Reaching forward, he let his fingers run blindly along the hem of the blanket as if he were trying to memorize the bump of every stitch in the seam. The expression on his face was unreadable to her, but it was bad. Something bad and twisted and just… Bad. His eyes closed. He huffed a breath, opened them again, and pushed the covers back. Next came sitting up. He rolled onto his side and pushed with his arms, pushed so hard he was shaking, but he didn't ask, so she bit her lip and watched him struggle. That was part of the whole supportive thing, she told herself. Watching. Sometimes. Even when it made her heart hurt.

When he scooted to the side of the bed, his breaths growing heavier as he neared the edge and swung his feet over the side in a slow crawl of aching movement, he looked like he expected one false move to tear him apart. Hunching over, he stared through the gap between his knees at the floor, almost as if he were counting the cracks between all the tiles, making a mental picture so that he would never forget despite the cloud of drugs. At first, he seemed ready to try, and he shifted an inch as though he were going to slip down onto his feet, but surrender slowly took his expression hostage as he stared longer at the distance he had to go, and his beautiful blue eyes sunk further into hopelessness.

"I can't," he whispered.

"I'll help," she said.

"I don't mean I need help, Mere," he said, his voice quivering even though his face remained a bitter mask. "I mean I can't. I just… Please. Please, I can't," he said, and his quiet stillness leaked away as he started to spill tears again. His face drenched itself with red hues, his embarrassment ablaze on his face, and his shoulders shook as passive crying became active, soul-rending, enervated gasps of pain that he didn't seem to be able to help. "I can't do it. I'm so tired. I feel so bad. I can't. Please. I just can't."

She sat next to him and wrapped her arms around him tightly. "I know you're tired," she whispered against his ear. "I know. I know. But, Derek, do you trust me?"

He closed is eyes. The sudden rush of sobs stopped after he found resolve to plug the dam, but the result left him sullen and dour. "Yes," he said.

"Then get up."

"I ca--"

"Don't say that anymore," she snapped. Harsh. Maybe she was being too harsh. But he… He needed it. He needed someone to remind him that giving up wasn't an option, particularly for someone like him. "You're Derek. You don't know the meaning of the word. Get up."

She stood up and folded her arms over her chest, staring at him with what she hoped was her best encouraging but stern glare-y thing. Through what she'd come to think of as the space-gaze, the I'm trippin'-but-it's-not-a-trip gaze, he looked at her like she'd just consigned him to his death or something, which wasn't really all that confidence inspiring, but she tried to remain firm, hoping that when she bit her lip it didn't make her look too doubtful. Must resist fiddling with hair. Must… No. Stop it.

He needed this. It would help. Because she knew him. Or, she thought she knew him. And this, she supposed, was a big test on that. Derek likes indigo, single malt scotch, and the occasional cigar. But what would fix Derek from an in-progress emotional collapse? A – sleeping it off, B – attacking the problem, or C – none of the above?

"Definitely B," she muttered.

He blinked sluggishly at her. "What?"

"Never mind," she assured him. "I'm doing my babbly thing."

He didn't have any sort of joke or comeback for that, which troubled her. A lot.

He sighed and slid the rest of the way off the bed. A little moan escaped as he stood, shivering with strain in the struggle to force himself upright so soon after the last marathon. He'd only gotten a nap from that. Doubt pinched at her once again. No. Being tired wouldn't hurt him as much as being ready to lie down and give up. She wrapped her arm around his waist and held on like a rock-climber to a lifesaving tangle of rope. She squeezed.

"We're okay," she assured him as she settled under the severity of his weight. He seemed heavier despite the fact that he had to have lost some weight recently with his sporadic eating. Perhaps the heaviness was so crushing because he wasn't saving her from his weight at all anymore. It seemed likely. Though, from the look on his face, the extra drag wasn't because he wanted to make a point, or because he wanted to punish her. He'd just been… spent. "Lean on me all you need," she said, resolute from the promise of her plan. "We can make it."

For a moment, they just stood there breathing, trying to get used to the effort, him of standing, her of holding him up. He reached for the IV pole, only to stop, mid-grab. "You took it out?" he said, his gaze darting to the catheter in his wrist, blinking.

"Yeah," she said. "It'll get in the way, and it's not supposed to get wet."

Either he was too focused on keeping himself from falling down, or he was too drugged to make sense of what she'd said. He didn't ask her what she meant. Didn't seem to absorb that it was just the two of them. Didn't hone in on the fact that the door was shut and locked, or that she hadn't moved the wheelchair up to the bed so that it would be easier for him to get to. More things that scared her. Derek wasn't an oblivious person. Far from it. Morphine, just the morphine, she assured herself.

He took a wobbling step forward, breathing heavily. He took another step. And another. The progress was slow, but steady. When he started shuffling toward the wheelchair, she squeezed him and guided him away.

"What?" he said, panting, dull, still not making sense of things.

"Wheelchair is later," she explained. "You can do it, just keep working, Derek. This is what all that freaking lettuce was for."

He didn't laugh, not that she'd expected him to.

By the time she'd guided him across the threshold into the bathroom, he was crying again, leaking like a worn-out faucet, quiet, sniffling, a steady stream of grief, but she forced herself to keep on pushing. This would be worth it, she told herself. This would be worth it. Worth it. Worth it. And Derek would be all right. He needed this.

The bathroom was large, and the shower stall was more of a long, wide rectangle than the little box one might expect to find in an apartment or a small home. It was equipped with a bench, meant to provide access for people who were too incapacitated to stand up. The light was harsh, and the tiled walls and floor were stark and cold. But it would serve.

"Okay," she said, breathless under the strain of nearly carrying him. She guided him into the shower stall. They stumbled and bumped and shifted around before she managed to get him all the way into the stall. "Sit on the bench," she commanded.

Whether he liked the idea or not, he didn't need to be encouraged. He fell more than sat, but he ended up on the bench. He leaned against the cool tile, resting his cheek against the sidewall, soothing the fire. He peered around as he snorted breath after frantic breath, and his space-gaze narrowed finally into curiosity. "Meredith, what…" he said, tripping on the thought. He squeezed his eyes shut. "I can't take a shower yet."

She chose not to respond to that. "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

He grunted with wry, unhappy laughter. "Yeah, right," he replied darkly, his fingers curling tightly against the edge of the bench as she left him behind to grab the bag she'd stowed on the back of the wheelchair as well as his duffel bag from underneath the bed.

She hauled everything into the bathroom and shut the door behind them.

"What are you doing?" he asked as she started pulling out plastic and tape.

"What's it look like?" she replied as traipsed back into the shower with the roll of plastic and started covering up the catheter stuck in his wrist with plastic wrap. She taped it closed at his wrist and his elbow. She handed him the shower cap she'd pilfered from the top shelf of the supply closet, and then she went back out to grab soap, a washcloth, and a towel. The towel, she set out against the sink. The soap and the washcloth she carried into the stall with her and plopped them onto the floor.

Derek was still pondering the little cap she'd given him.

"Put it on," she said. "It'll keep the bandages and the incision dry."

He looked between her and the cap, flummoxed. The struggle of thoughts as they marched across his face was painful to watch. He was having such a hard time with the whole linear thing. "But…" he said. His face flushed.

She crossed her arms. "Derek, I'm not going to force you," she said quietly. Forcing him was the last thing she wanted. There was bossy. And then there was… above and beyond. He couldn't walk, and he was far too weak to protest if she were to really stamp her foot down. It scared her to realize that if she really wanted to, she could easily overpower him, easily keep him in a chokehold and sponge him off, unwilling, despite her smaller size, and that was… This was already a fragile situation, and she didn't ever want him to feel like he couldn't say no. She bit her lip again and resumed the mental chorus that this would work, would work, would definitely work. "Look, if you want to go back, just tell me, and I'll gladly help you. But I think… I think this will be good. And I want to. Help. I want to help, Derek."

He fingered the cap. It crinkled in his hands. He never answered her, but his fingers searched along the edges of the plastic seal, and soon the crinkling became a squealing roar, bouncing in an echo off the tiles as he tore it open and freed the shower cap from its sterile prison. He fumbled, just a little, but he managed to get it on securely.

She turned to the dials marked hot and cold and started the water, testing it with her hand, fiddling with the knobs until the temperature rose to a comfortable, soothing warm. "Do you want me to stay with you or sit outside?" she asked when she turned back. No forcing. If he wanted privacy, she'd do her best, even though she hated the thought of leaving him alone ever again. She'd… She bit her lip. Damn it, she loved him.

_It shouldn't be raining…_

He swallowed. For a moment, the roar of the water hummed between them like a thick, solid wall. He glanced at the faucet and back to her, his fingers tightening against the shower bench again. "Stay," he said, his voice barely climbing above the rumble of noise.

She masked the overwhelming slam of relief with a grin. "Call me Nurse Meredith, then," she said as she started stripping off her clothes, tossing them onto the floor beyond the stall door without much thought until she stopped and saw the expression on his face. He didn't make a move to untie his gown, but he was eyeing her. Definitely. Even through the morphine, he managed to trace her curves with a glance, albeit with a few, hitching stops to retrain his focus. Or maybe that was just pausing to ogle.

She hooked her thumbs under the lace of her underwear, toying with it before worming it the rest of the way down her legs. He laughed as she flicked underwear away in the best impression of a stripper she could muster. Just call her Candy. Or Bunny. Or whatever. She didn't care how good or bad it was. Because he'd laughed. His low, devious, sexy laugh.

"Crying gets me strip shows and co-ed showers now, too?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow at her, and her heart swelled. They hadn't even started yet, and he already seemed so much more like himself. Derek. Her Derek. A Derek that she knew. The hurting, slow burn of worry eased. It was as if he were returning from a long business trip or something. The missing him thing lessened, and a thrill zinged down her spine.

"Yes, but only if you promise not to jump me," she said as she knelt in front of him. "No sex yet. I had to pull strings just for the shower. And I think Dr. Bailey might hurt you if she finds out we were screwing instead of studying and resting."

"Mere, if I could have sex at all right now, I wouldn't be crying," he said, his tone quiet as he dipped back a little into melancholy.

"Well, you never know," she said. She gripped his knees and squeezed. "It could have been a ploy. I have weaknesses, you know."

"Men who cry?"

"Just you," she said, smiling. She leaned in to kiss him, frantically trying to pull happy Derek back to her, back up from his drowning place. Her lips slipped up against his, and his warm palm found the small of her back, clutching, desperate, instinctual. If he'd possessed even a modicum of his usual energy, his hand would have roamed down past the curve of her ass, gripped at her hamstrings, and he would have swept her up into his lap like some sort of Casanova, or was that Don Juan, or... She pushed forward, clutching at him, careful to resist the urge to claw at his head in her desperation to wind her fingers through curls that weren't there anymore. She shifted and sat on his knees, finishing his sweep-you-up motion for him. He didn't seem to mind at all. His palm wandered up her spine, sliding up over each ripple of bone in a painful, sensuous, slow crawl that made her want to beg, beg him to do the same to her breasts or her… Elsewhere. His journey ended at the space between her shoulder blades, and he caressed her as she came down on him again and again in a light peppering of fire and want. He tasted so good, so warm, so right, and she…

Stop…

Stop, damn it! She pulled back, coughing, panting as she stumbled back off of him. "Bad! Bad patient! No sex! You're taking advantage!" She leaned against the wall and let the cool of the tiles seep into her hot skin like mildew into grout.

"Me?" he said between pants, his voice raised in tired disbelief.

She turned back to him when she could breathe without thinking about it, choosing not to merit that little comment with a response, because it probably would have led to more… More. Calm down. She really shouldn't have done the kissing thing. That was… Bad. Because now she was freaking horny. At least he looked better. Still not totally fine. But better. And sexy. Despite everything.

He licked his lips, blinking as he fought his own little battle to recover. "It's good to know that even when I'm depressed and exhausted, I'm turning you on," he finally managed, his voice as much self-deprecating as it was snarky before his expression descended again into the unhappy Derek she wanted so desperately to just… Go away. At least it'd taken longer to happen that time.

She suddenly got a strange mental picture of one of those bicycle tire pumps. Stamp, stamp, stamp to push the air into the stupid tire. The air would slowly drain again if you didn't keep up the pace. It was a battle. It burned a busload of calories. She had a vague flash of Thatcher doing it for her tricycle in the driveway on an autumn day when a blaze of color had lit the trees with oranges, reds, browns, and yellows.

"So, how does…" she began, suddenly nervous. She didn't want to presume, didn't want to force herself on him. Particularly now when he was so self-conscious. Would he do the washing, and she'd just make sure he didn't fall, or… Or what? She bit her lip again, surprised she hadn't chewed the thing to a bloody pulp by then with all the worrying she'd done, was doing, would do eventually. "How would you like to do this?"

He met her eyes, solid, blue, stark, hurting but hopeful, just a hint of twinkling pushing through the mire of the morphine haze. Twinkling that hadn't been there ten minutes ago. "Help me," he said, barely over the roar of the water. Steam curled around them, billowing up from the faucet, warm, soothing. Neither spoke, but she understood the plan. Derek was one of the few people she got.

"Okay," she said. "Whenever you're ready."

He gripped the sides of the shower bench and, with shaking hands, pushed up with a gasp. She caught him with a grunted, "I've got you," as she guided him to the railing. He braced his hands against the metal, shaking, trembling.

She slipped her arms up underneath his gown and ran her palms along his smooth, naked skin. "Okay?" she asked when her roaming brought her to the first tie of his gown. Okay to strip you? Okay to…

See you?

"Yeah," he replied, his tone clipped. His eyes were shut. And he stood, breathing, grasping the railing, shivering with the effort, but he stood.

"Let me know if you need to sit again," she said as she undid the ties of his gown and pulled it away from him. Her breath caught. Her breath always caught when she was this near to him, skin to skin.

She pulled up the handle up on the faucet, and a hearty, drenching spray poured down over them, beating, beating, beating. Steam billowed up into a thick cloud as she lathered up the washcloth. She started with his arms, rubbing his shoulders, up and down his trembling biceps, dipping into the tufts of soft hair underneath his arms. She didn't mess with the plastic-covered forearm, afraid she might dislodge the tape and ruin things.

Instead, she spent extra, careful attention on his chest. She slid up against his back, her nose resting between his shoulder blades as she reached underneath his arms and rubbed in slow, soothing circles that had him swaying, groaning with the release of tension and despair. She laid a light kiss on his skin.

"That feels good," he said, husky and deep, shuddering. The washcloth, scrunched in the clutch of her fingers, bumped into her palm as she drew it over the slight bulge of his pectorals, and then it relaxed again as the lazy, winding journey took her over the flat plane of his stomach.

His breaths came in slow, soft, rumbling heaves that occasionally lengthened and lowered into relaxed, rapturous moans. Every single sound he uttered made her heart flutter. She began to count the moments where he forgot. Forgot he was sick. Forgot he was unhappy. Forgot the storm of I-can'ts and languished in the soothing warmth, the spiral of her fingers and the cloth on his smooth, water-slick skin. One. Two. Three. She listened to them rumble through his back as she rested lightly against him, careful not to put weight down on him. Four. Five. Every time he made a sound, she sighed, closed her eyes, and just enjoyed the beat of the water and the roar and rush of it all. It was a gift. Six. And despite the noise, they hovered in a sort of silence. No words. No thoughts. No space between them. Seven.

She reached up to his neck, swept the cloth up against his throat, caressing the bump of his Adam's apple with a light brush as he leaned his head back and sighed. She pulled the cloth back under his arms and began at the nape of his neck, working down. She stopped to tease the muscles connecting his neck to his shoulders with her fingers, working into them, pushing out the knots like a sculptor molding clay. Trapezius deltoids. She loved them.

She re-soaped the washcloth and scrubbed it against his back, running it along the bumps of his spine, digging into all the muscle groups with loving attention. He swayed with her touch like a tree bowing to an onslaught of wind. As she wandered to the subtle dip of his lower back, she ran her fingers along the muscles like she was trying to spread cloth over a washboard to grate the dirt away. He flexed at her touch, and she was graced with more peaceful, rolling moans.

The end of his back brought her around to his front again, dipping low, low, lower. "No sex," she repeated as she brought the cloth into the edge of the forest of curls inches below his navel and began to softly work the soap in. She bit her lip, trying to slow her breaths. No sex. No. No. No. Who was she scolding, exactly?

He snorted. "Mere, I'm so fucking stoned right now, I doubt I could even if I wasn't wasting all my energy just on standing," he said, but his tone betrayed his lighter mood even if his words didn't, and his last syllable melted into a sigh before he could finish with a hard g.

"I think I meant me," she said as she worked lower still, massaging his length with soap and working back underneath it. He pushed into her hands with a jerk and a glorious little gasp. She smiled. "I'm having naughty thoughts."

"Are you?" he replied. He turned his head to the side, and she caught the barest hint of a smirk before he dipped back to rest his forehead against the wall again. "I'm not."

She laughed as his whole body shuddered, and he loosed another moan. "Liar," she said.

"Yeah," he agreed as he pushed out another throaty sound that sounded somewhat labored.

"Yes," she said, panting. "You're hot, you're naked, I'm naked. Usually these things equate to sex. And orgasms. Many, many orgasms."

Her breaths shortened as she thought about him sliding into her, filling her as they stood, connected and warm and clean and at peace. He'd do her slow, because he couldn't do fast right then. She'd help. And they'd finish. Not screaming or wild or crazy or desperate. Quiet. Loving. Reassuring. Reaffirming. Falling into the ecstasy of soft gasps and grinding movement, a slip, slip, slide of wet, hot, soapy skin on skin.

"You're a very naughty nurse," he said as if he'd read her mind.

She moaned, trying to force the thoughts away. No sex. No. Her lower body throbbed with needing. Shower. Naked. With Derek. It seemed almost inconceivable to not have sex involved. Though, she'd managed okay in Connecticut when she'd found him upset over his time with Addison. What the hell was wrong with her now?

_But you're fine. You woke up, and you're fine._

She needed to know him. Know him living.

"I know," she replied, because she was. She was naughty. Not supportive. Was it possible to be both naughty and supporting? Maybe it was. He seemed pretty happy right then despite the labor of standing and the dull haze of drugs. Happy. Self-assured. More like Derek.

She brought the cloth around and worked against the beautiful muscles that formed his very perfect ass, lingering longer than she should have before her whining stop, stop, stop thinking about sex thoughts convinced her to move lower to his hamstrings. Kneading, kneading, kneading, she fought a war with herself and his remaining tension. His muscles were stiff, and he flexed them as she wandered down, down, down to the ankle of one leg before rising up along the other, winding, twisting through the light dusting of curls on his calves, leaving a trail of soapy, white islands behind on the sea of his skin.

His body was so perfect. And hers. And hot. And warm. And there. And…

Derek.

"I need to sit," he admitted as she moved up to finish off with his hips and the ripples of his ribs.

"Okay, one sec," she said as she brought the cloth up into the spray to rinse it out, trying to ignore the little voice in the back of her mind screeching that it wanted to stay there in the hot shower forever, damn it. She sopped up some water and rinsed off the places the spray had missed. Once he was slick with water, and the piles of suds were wandering toward the drain, she turned the knobs, and the spray dwindled to a small, sluicing stream, a drip, drip, drip, and then it stopped.

She wrapped her arm around the hot, slick skin of his waist and helped him take the two steps back to the bench. He sat down heavily, dripping, but not shivering. The air held the steam in thick clots that kept the air warm and comfortable. She grabbed the towel from the sink and handed it to him while she went to dry off, put her clothes back on, and pull things out of his duffel bag. His toothbrush. His razor. A clean pair of flannel pajama pants, fluffy, white socks, and a soft t-shirt, one of his favorites. The shirt was a solid maroon color, and it gripped him in a way that made him look positively lickable, which would be good, even if she had to endure possible jealousy. If she could make him feel sexy on top of feeling better about, well, everything else, that would be a much appreciated bonus.

He'd just finished toweling everything off that he could without getting up. She handed him his razor and the bottle of shaving cream she'd packed for him. "Is this a hint?" he said as he brought his hands up to meet hers and their fingers brushed. He wrapped his grip around the cool bottle, and she released it into his keeping.

"Crying only gets you kissing if you're kissable," she said.

He snorted. "Fine," he replied as he set the razor down to rest on the bench beside him while he lathered up. He lifted the razor and handed it to her after he'd finished. "I'm high," he said. "If I slit my throat, Miranda would laugh at me, and I'm fragile right now." But it wasn't entirely a joke that time. Warbling uncertainty bit at his tone.

She rested her elbows on his knees and leaned toward him. "Derek," she whispered.

"I'm… better," he said. He met her gaze plainly. "Thank you."

"Okay," she said, but the serious look on his face was so incongruous with the pile of foam on his face and the shower cap that she snorted with laughter. "I dub thee frosty, my stubbly snowman," she added as she gripped his chin, tilted his face to the side, and started to work on his left cheek.

"If I could think straight," he said as she flicked the first blob of stubbly goo away, "I would have a witty comeback for that."

"Tilt," she said. He leaned his head the other way. "We need to get you one of those will return signs. You could set the little clock." The razor rasped against his skin, leaving behind it a trail of smooth, kissable flesh. She flicked the razor again.

"Derek is home," he said as she cleaned the blade. "He's just having a little trouble with the 2 plus 2s."

"And yet you can still figure out Meredith speak," she said as she scraped at the space between his lip and his nose. "I would rank that at least as hard as long division."

Flick. He smiled. "I'm a talented guy." Flick.

They sat in silence while she finished with his chin and throat.

"All done," she said after a few minutes. He raised the towel from his lap to wipe the leftover scum away.

She gave him the toothpaste and toothbrush next, which he used, but not before he gave her a small grin and winked. "Do I get a buff and a wax, too?"

"Trust me, Derek. You do not want to wax. Even on morphine."

"Probably not," he agreed around a mouthful of toothpaste.

She helped him out of the shower, moving him to stand against the sink. She pulled the shower cap off first. "Left foot," she commanded, choosing next to deal with the pants, mostly to force herself to stop thinking the lusty, bad, naughty thoughts. He shifted, and she yanked the left leg of his pjs under his foot and gathered it at his ankle. "Right?" She followed suit with the right leg, and then yanked it up his legs, trying, trying, trying not to let herself start panting at the soft feel of his skin under her palms, at the firm curve of his muscles as her hands fleeted up his calves, his quads, coming to rest on his hips. The shirt went on next. He actually managed to stand without supporting himself long enough to pull it over his head on his own, though he quickly re-sought the lip of the sink with a desperate grip as soon as his arms were free again. The socks were a little difficult, but they managed.

Everything settled against his clean, dry skin, and he sighed, practically sobbed with relief as she rubbed his chest and smiled. She'd been right. Just getting rid of the grimy, awful, sick feel of hospital seemed to be helping so, so much. He had his own clothes again, soft and fresh and warm against his skin. He was clean. His mouth tasted like mint instead of the pasty, gummy I-want-water that always lingered after surgery. And even if he slept the rest of the day away, oblivious, it had been worth it. Just for the few minutes of now when he smiled, felt like he was back in his own skin again, felt like Derek Shepherd the surgeon, not Derek Shepherd the patient.

They hobbled back to his wheelchair, where he sat down with a grateful, tortured sigh, not once looking like he regretted sitting there, or was embarrassed about it, or wished he was far, far away. The moment where he was fine was lasting. She hoped it lingered until she could get him out of this place. She'd never hated hospitals before. She worked in them. She'd had surgery. But in the space of twenty-four hours, she'd devolved into a well of hate, hate, hate.

She removed the plastic from his wrist, reinserted his intravenous line, and started the saline flow again after she'd moved the bag from the wheel pole to the chair pole. She hoped Francine wouldn't get mad about that. It wasn't really doctoring, was it? It was just saline. And she didn't want to wreck the moment by calling in a damned nurse right now. Strike policy or no, she couldn't bring herself to care. Not with Derek staring at her through a hooded, relaxed gaze, waiting to see what was next, tired, but not nearly so soul-weary anymore.

She went back for his duffel bag, pulling out his watch from the bottom where his wallet and other personal things were stashed along with a few miscellaneous, hitchhiking crumbs. She handed it to him before hooking the duffel bag on the back of the wheelchair. She wasn't sure the orderlies would come to move his stuff anymore now that she'd told Francine she'd move Derek herself.

He hooked the watch on his wrist, staring at it for a long set of moments. He swallowed. "Thank you," he said as he fingered it, his voice quiet, but in a hopeful sort of way. "It's eleven-thirty, you know."

"Yep, it is," she replied. "Ready to move?"

"Yeah," he said.

As soon as she started moving, he drifted off, evidenced by the slow, forward tilt of his head, until he seemed as though he were staring at something fascinating in his lap, and his chin rested against his breastbone. Whatever reserves he'd had, she'd managed to rip them all out with her calculated strike. He was an easy mark for the drift of cool air against his face and the soothing rumble of the wheels against the floor. The trip upstairs was uneventful. She didn't run into anyone she knew well enough to chat with beyond a casual hello. Derek received a few cheers of good luck and well-wishing, which she smiled at, though she was secretly happy he was sleeping through it, because she didn't think he'd take the support quite as it was intended.

Getting him into his step-down bed proved difficult. Sleep tore his mind to shreds more than the morphine ever had, and just getting him to wake up enough again to stumble into bed was a battle bordering on epic. He collapsed onto the mattress with a sigh, but it wasn't a defeated sound. Just tired. For about four seconds, he stared at her, his gaze hooded with a deep, coiling, desperate sort of love, but she'd taken all he had, and he slipped into dreams before his next breath had parted from him.

The new floor nurse seemed nice. His name was Abasi, and he was a short, thin man with a beaky nose and wide, dark, handsome eyes. For a vague, shameless moment, Meredith found herself happy that she wouldn't have to be jealous of a nurse ogling Derek in his sexy shirt. Unless, of course, Abasi was gay. But that was a whole different tangent, and she smacked some sense back into herself before she embarked on it. Derek sick. Derek sleeping in bed. Flirty nurses were the least of her problems.

Abasi checked in about a minute after Meredith had gotten Derek into bed, started the proper medication cycles again, and made sure the finger clip was working correctly. Derek slept straight through it all, not even flinching as Abasi touched his nose and ears to set the nasal cannula in place.

Meredith dropped Derek's bag into the slot under his bed and collapsed next to him, curling up against him as she listened to his rasping breaths, her ear flat against his chest. In sleep, he wrapped his arms around her, but he didn't rouse. The tiredness rolled over her, but she had a warm feeling. That warm feeling in her gut that told her she'd saved a life. Normally, that feeling would have relieved her. Saving a life. But in this case, it slipped a knife of fear in her gut, and the relief over Derek's slowly rebuilding levity and spirit sloughed off her like a snakeskin, leaving behind only nerves and quiet worry.

She heaved with a trembling sigh. There'd actually been a life to save. She hoped it lasted. What was she going to do if he started to get so depressed again? She was out of ideas. Giving him back himself in the literal sense had helped. But… There wasn't much left to give back to him beyond a headache free head and the ability to walk without going wheezy and breathless after two or three steps. Only time could do that. Not her.

For once, she truly understood Derek's fear of being powerless.

She closed her eyes, listening to the sluggish thump-thumps of his heartbeat, echoing against his breastbone. Toying with a little piece of his shirt, she sniffled. She wanted to sleep, but she never wanted to sleep again. Derek was fine. He was going to be fine. She just had to last until they got him out of the freaking hospital. Half of the trouble came from the fact that he had to endure all of this under the scrutiny of those he considered his peers. And she could. She could last.

She grabbed one of her textbooks and a highlighter and resettled against him. She rested the book against the gap between his side and hers, tilting it up with one hand while she started tracing with the highlighter with the other. He didn't seem to mind being used as a book rest, which was good, because she didn't think she could ever do the watching him from a chair thing again, and his heartbeat was a soothing thing to study by.

He was warm. He smelled of soap and softness and Derek things again. Derek was fine for now, and she'd last until he was fine for good. And he would be fine for good.

_At least I didn't die…_

No. He would be fine for good.


	42. Chapter 40

**Author's Notes: I'm way, way, WAY behind on replying to the comments y'all have left, but my choices were finishing this part or replying to the feedback, and I figured you'd prefer the former option. I'll start trying to get back to everyone ASAP :) Thanks so much for the comments! **

* * *

"Oh, Der," a hoarse, bitten whisper curled in the space to his right. He recognized it. Five more minutes, Mom, he wanted to mumble. I won't be late. He was so tired. The thoughts didn't connect with his mouth. 

"He's okay, Ellen," Meredith replied softly. Something warm stroked his arm. "He's just sleeping right now."

"Let him, then," his mother said. "I don't want to wake him just to make myself feel better."

Just five more minutes…

There was a vague swell of chatter, hushed. Mark. Others. The rumble of voices fell into the roar as deep sleep pulled him under. He surfaced later. Once. Clink, clink, clink. Knitting. Mom? And then he was gone again.

When true awareness crept into the folds and twists of his mind, the mistiness of dreams dispersed, leaving only a dark, muzzy blur that told him his body was waiting. Waiting for him to open his eyes. But he was, for the first time in a while, comfortable. Mostly. A dull hum held his pain hostage, leaving him with a rushing feeling behind his eyes as its replacement, but it was just that. Dull. Enough to tell he was still high, but not enough to make him doubt reality. His limbs, sprawled, relaxed, attached but almost seeming like other continents rather than states of his own nation, languished still in sleep. His body was warm, but not too hot.

A weight rested on his left side. Weights. Something lay flat against his breastbone, curved over the edge, and ran along his side, pressing warmth and life up against his skin through the soft cotton of his shirt. Something thin and cool and hard poked him closer to his waist. A book? The warmth along his side was Meredith, from the scent and feel and just… sense. Lavender. Soft cinnamon. A light, squeaky noise warbled in his ear, and her body jerked in a minute way that wouldn't have been noticeable were he not hyperaware of himself at that moment. Highlighter. Definitely a book, then. Studying. Her quiet breathing relaxed him, and he lingered there, for once not startled awake by an invasion or the nerve-wracking fear of one. For once able to open his eyes on his own terms.

The thrum and cadence of voices gradually sharpened into the bark-bark-bark of conversation. English was a harsh collection of words. Less flowing. Less rolling than some of the languages often categorized as romance. When listening to the sounds more than the meaning, it became a sort of rapid-fire twitter of definitive beats rather than the crush and roll of waves.

"Should he really be sleeping this long? He's… I thought you said he was fine," Ellen whispered.

"Ellen," a man – familiar, deep tone, who? -- said, "He's probably off on the planet Neptune somewhere with the amount of stuff they're giving him. Don't worry. I was totally gone for days when I had my knee surgery. You know that."

"He's on painkillers and anti-epileptics, among other things," Meredith agreed. "Plus he's worn out from this morning. And anesthesia can really wreck you."

"All right," his mother said, though she didn't sound entirely convinced.

Fine. He was fine.

Mom, I'm fine.

He cracked his eyelids open, unwilling to move the rest of himself yet. The blur of the room resolved into dim sharpness. The ceiling was wide and flat and white, made up of some sort of tile that hugged the overhead fluorescent lights. The overheads were off. A strip of fluorescent light buzzed over his head, tacked on the wall a foot or two over the head of the bed. A warmer, friendlier yellow light glowed from… That way. He rolled his gaze toward the noises.

A tall, lanky man stood with his back to Derek as he conversed softly with Derek's mother. She sat against the wall on a fluffy red loveseat under the cheerful glow of a table lamp, her knitting project sprawled across her lap and beside her hip as her fingers worked deftly at stitch after stitch. The thing in her lap was a blur of dark color, moving with the flicks and tucks of her hands too quickly for him to focus on in the poor light.

The man's profile was long and pointy and angular. His black, wispy hair stopped at his shoulders. A small, blue-eyed, black-haired girl was draped against him. She sucked her thumb, her cheek resting against his shoulder, her legs gripping his waist as he skillfully supported her in a one-handed grip. Stewart. And Annie, the younger of his two girls. Recognition sank in as Derek slowly processed things.

Annie's eyes met Derek's, and her wide, innocent stare sharpened into a smile that slowly sprawled across her face. He lay there, staring back at her, almost as if his brain just hadn't connected up with his body yet. The sharpness of waking up still hadn't quite hit him. Annie giggled around her thumb. Stewart reached up absently with his free hand to rub her back as he laughed softly at something Ellen had said.

Meredith looked up at the sound of Annie's laughter, followed her gaze to the bed, and her whole veneer softened.

"Hey," she said, inches from him. She leaned in to kiss him. When she tilted his face toward her, the world spun over and re-settled again, and he saw a sprawl of notes and books. The cold, thin thing poking him was the edge of a hardback book. Meredith's hand clasped a highlighter, but she forgot about it as she greeted him. The pen dropped onto the book from her slack fingertips, leaving a dot of yellow where the felt of the marker landed on the page, and then rolled into the dip of the spine. Papers crinkled as she shifted.

He didn't need to think to kiss her back. It was an instinct more than anything else. Their lips brushed, and even through the haze of everything else, the warmth, smell, and taste was like coming home. When she let him breathe again, he was definitely awake, though his thought processes were still scattered like remnants of paper that'd been through a shredder.

"So, it's alive!" Stewart said, smiling as he walked over to the bed. Ellen threw her yarn and needles to the side almost negligently and stood, leaving the pile behind her, forgotten.

"I knew you couldn't lose gracefully, man," Stewart said. "Just had to pass the capture the flag thing off as brain damage. I get it."

"Stewart," Ellen scolded gently. "Derek, how are you, sweetheart?"

He blinked and inhaled. He brought up his wrist and stared, squinting. 7PM. He'd slept. He'd slept seven hours? He'd… Nobody had woken him up or interrupted him, and it was… Better.

His mother. And Stewart. And Annie. Stewart and Annie? There. "What?" he managed as his limbs, latecomers to the party, started checking in, and then the rest of him woke. Discomfort. Not pain. Almost pain. Almost pain that meant… Seven hours. Diuretics. He reached out to grasp the railing on the bed. A pulse of sound fell from his lips. Sort of a slurred word. Sort of just… Urgh. Awake. He had to get up. Really had to. Stewart backed away from the bed, giving him a place to actually get up to, but his mother hovered, her spindly fingers clutching at the railing.

"Der, Der, what are you doing?" Ellen said.

"I have to get up," he rasped. Really.

A light brush of fingers against his face reminded him Meredith was there, in the bed with him. She was fiddling with something, touching his face, his hand… What? Removing his finger clip and the nasal cannula. He'd forgotten about those.

"Thank you," he said.

"Sure," she said as she bit her lip. She had dark circles under her eyes, and she looked tired, tired like him, not just needing a nap. But he had to get up.

He gripped the railing and pushed himself to the side of the bed. He shoved himself into a sitting position, limbs shaking with the effort. But he had to get up. And so he would. He would make himself.

Standing up was a shock. Just like it had been in the morning. For a moment, two breaths and the heartbeats between, everything seemed fine, like he wasn't sick with remnants of anesthesia and trauma and too many drugs with sedatives in them, and he was just getting out of bed in the morning. Standing was standing. And then gravity and tiredness and reality seeped into him like a creeping infection. His legs started to feel heavy, and the weight crept up into his torso, sinking claws into every vertebra and joint, unfurling into his arms, gripping his shoulders, until everything seemed like it was trying to drag him down, yank him under the surface of the floor like the shark in that stupid movie. Jaws. His head swam.

Annie smiled and pointed with thin little fingers that shifted and blurred as Derek tried to focus on them. "Pick me up, Uncle Derek?"

Stewart shushed her. "Remember what Mommy said about making noise?"

Annie's eyes grew wide. "Oh, yeah," she whispered. Stewart ran a large hand over her hair, smoothing it, and glanced at Derek apologetically.

"I'll take her outside for a few minutes," he said, and then he strode out without further word.

Derek reached for the IV pole and grabbed it, trying to stifle the whine of discomfort that attempted to escape on the coattails of his breaths as they shortened with the exertion of just... Remaining. Remaining without falling.

Everyone was watching. Everyone was… He swallowed, and he forced his foot to move, taking a hesitant, wobbling step. It was only his family. Stewart would never comment, never, and he'd left, anyway. Meredith was… She wouldn't help unless he asked.

She'd actually gone back to studying, rolling out flat into the center of the bed, books sprawled everywhere now that he was no longer in the bed to prop them up, and, though her gaze darted toward him every time her highlighter dotted a sentence, she didn't make him feel scrutinized or uncomfortable. She was just Meredith, staring at Derek, the sexy man whom she loved. It almost made him feel normal. Like him getting up wasn't an event that had to be catalogued and critiqued.

He didn't want to look at his mother, but she was suddenly in his space anyway, hugging him. Her perfume wafted around him like a soothing cloud, and he felt his eyelids droop against its thrall. The pull of sleep called him like a siren back to the bed. Just standing had been enough to beat him down. Tired. He sighed and hugged her back.

"I'm okay, Mom," he muttered, wishing he didn't feel so disconnected from thinking, wishing he wasn't worried so much about staying upright, wishing he didn't have to move. But he did have to move, or he would embarrass himself. The normalcy Meredith had gifted him with slowly bled away, and he swallowed against the roil of upset. He didn't want comfort or pity or help or anything. He just wanted to walk to the bathroom.

"Oh, Der, sweetheart," his mother whispered, the syllables warbling with stunted, reined, almost crying. Almost crying. And that disturbed him, too, because he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her so upset. When… When was? Dad. She'd cried after Dad had died. And that was it.

That definitely didn't make him feel normal.

"I'm really okay, Mom," he said, swallowing, imprisoned, wishing he could just… Move. But her fierce grip kept him still.

"Derek Shepherd," she replied in her quiet, scolding voice, "You're a very bad liar."

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I need to…" He closed his eyes. He needed to be at home. Where he could have five minutes to wake up without being stared at or worried over.

His mother released him, finally, at least not insistent on helping him stumble to the bathroom. Without any further words, he took another step. The bathroom was so far away, it made his eyes burn, but it was… Better. He felt better than he had in the morning. There was a definitive difference. Before, he'd looked at the door to his room and it had seemed like something distant, something across an ocean of floor space, and in a bitter moment, the thought of walking that far had lain waste to him. He'd known. He'd known he wouldn't be able to force his body to do the distance on his own. At least not in both directions.

This moment was different. He stared at the bathroom door, but the floor wasn't an ocean to cross. Just a lake, perhaps. A Great Lake, but a lake. And he knew. He knew that if he pushed himself, he could do it. At great expense to himself, but he could. He could, he could, he could. He carried that thought into the will that drove his next step to its stuttering completion. And the next. And the next. And the next.

He was breathing like he'd run four laps around the hospital on frantic 911 pages by the time he closed the bathroom door behind him. But he'd walked. He'd walked to the bathroom. And, for the first time in what seemed like a small eternity, he was alone. No Meredith. No family. No nurses. No doctors. No Mark. Nobody. A blur of tears blotted things out for a moment. Three sobs. Quiet ones. He allowed them, and then he put the grief away. He put the upset away, straightened the unwanted mess of himself, and it stayed there. Put away. Straightened. That was an improvement.

His fingers wound around the IV pole, and he hobbled to the toilet to relieve himself. When he moved back to the sink to wash his hands, he stared into the little over the sink mirror. He looked rather how he felt. Thrashed. Tired. Weak. Pale. His eyes were dull, and the bandages crowned him as unwell. Not a thing like he was supposed to look, even when he tried to test a fake smile. Forcing himself not to dwell on it, he dabbed his face with some cool water, which laved his skin almost like one of Meredith's kisses, except cold replaced her endless heat. The quick motions made his head spin, and he had to stop for a moment. He leaned into the lip of the sink to support himself, happy at the feel of flannel smashed between his skin and the porcelain. His flannel. His stuff.

By the time he'd finished in the bathroom, despite the buzzing interference behind his eyes, despite the fact that he wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep forever, despite the substantial delay between thoughts and results, he felt almost human again. Because he was clean and in his own clothes, he'd actually slept, and he'd been able to get to the damned bathroom by himself. A pitiful list, really, but…

When he opened the door, his mother looked up and gave him a watery smile. Stewart had come back into the room and was bouncing Annie on his knee as she giggled. He'd been asleep for seven hours, and the world had left him behind again. How many of his family were there? Who. When. The five W's bumped and clanked around in his head like a bad journalism project from college, but as Derek slowly made his way back to the bed, he lost the tangle of thoughts in the brambles of moving. One foot after the other. One step. One step. One step. He could, he could, he could.

Meredith looked up from the sprawl of her books and notes and pens and studiousness. She stared at him as he approached and smiled brightly when he paused at the railing. He shakily leaned on it, brushing the pads of his fingers against the metal as small breaths ripped his ability to speak from him. He'd run forty miles in the space of twenty-four feet, twelve each way.

"Good morning," she said, her voice soft and warm as she capped her highlighter and started pulling all her stuff into a pile. She slid off the other side of the bed, yanking her things with her in a fluid motion, and collapsed into a chair right next to the bed.

He blinked, his gaze crawling slowly to the window. Inky, deep blue hovered in the sky like hues of night in a watercolor painting. Deep evening, but not yet black. "It's night…" he managed as he collapsed back into the bed, trying to catch his breath. Right? But he didn't ask that, didn't want to indicate how unsettled he was that he genuinely didn't know for sure.

"Well, yeah," she said. "But I think we should throw this morning out and count this." She leaned in, grabbed his hand, and squeezed.

"I'm better," he agreed quietly as his body sank further into the bed and just stopped working. Better. Just not good. Her fingers brushed his face as she hooked the cannula back over his ears.

He closed his eyes, relaxing at the warmth of her touch. Sleep. Sleep would return to him so easily. But he didn't… He'd been awake for all of twenty minutes. He wasn't ready to be exhausted yet. He wasn't… He still had no idea what was going on, and he wanted… His family was there. He hadn't even said hello. What kind of… He was supposed to remember those things.

He lay there, spaced, dimly aware that she was picking up his other hand and re-clipping the heart monitor to his finger. His shirt rustled in the quiet space between them as she ran her palms across his chest, soothing. It was night. He'd been awake for twenty minutes. Twenty. He hadn't said hello. His mother was upset. He should talk to Meredith. But…

His head tilted sideways. He snapped himself awake, but in the startled panic of forcing himself back out of the vague carpet of black, he discovered that another twenty minutes had disappeared when he glanced at his watch, and everyone had gone back to not watching him expectantly. What. At least the drowning tiredness had eased to a buzz. He needed a catnap just to walk?

He blinked, trying to catch up with things again. Better. He felt better. He didn't have to get up, and waking up hadn't seemed like an ordeal that time. It'd just sort of happened. There were drugs clotting up his thoughts, but not nearly as harshly as he'd remembered from the blur of the morning. No pain, either. No residual ache. It was all gone.

He sighed, swallowing. "How's studying going?" he rasped, suddenly at a loss. What was he supposed to say? He wanted to be awake and absorbing the world again. But he hadn't. He hadn't been awake and absorbing the world for hours, and now everything seemed awkward. He didn't want the subject to be him. He didn't want… He wasn't an event. Except he was why his family had flown across the country. Why Meredith was there all the time instead of going home to rest and take a break. Derek, how are you, would surely come up. It already had.

Meredith looked up from her book, her eyes widening with startled surprise before she relaxed. "Going well," she said. "I've finished reviewing plastics. Mark helped. Thanks for making him review with me. And I got through about fifty billion chapters while you were out today. I think I've now committed to memory every freaking symptom you could possibly ever have about anything. Now, I just need to remember which combos make what. I was going to review surgery techniques and stuff later in the week. You're a good book rest, by the way."

He couldn't stop a breathy chuckle as he latched on to the last bit of the jumble she'd said. "I noticed."

She frowned. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"No," he replied, sighing. "Not such a light sleeper, now, am I?"

"Just means you're saved from my endless snoring."

"Maybe I like your snoring," he said, unable to stop the lump from forming at the back of his throat. He didn't like it. But he missed it anyway. Because it meant he was in his own bed. Home. With her.

"You hate my snoring," she said, leaning in to kiss him. "But I love you anyway."

"I love you, too," he whispered. As she pulled away, he caught the flicker of the diamond ring in the dim light, and he sighed. He definitely wanted to rejoin the world. It was a pretty good place to be, all things considered. He raised his hand, reaching for her, and she took it, not needing any sort of hint or prodding. Her warm skin slid against his own. He felt for the little band of platinum and sighed again.

Tiredness crept, but he stamped it down as he fumbled for the bed controls and raised himself up to sit. Sitting would help. If he was sitting, maybe he wouldn't drift so easily.

He turned to his mother and Stewart as the bed hummed and pushed him up. The room tilted until his eyes caught up. "Did she tell you we made it official?" he asked, flashing them a weak grin.

Ellen smiled. "Yes. It will be a lovely story to tell your…" She glanced at Meredith and swallowed. It wasn't a look of condemnation or anything of the sort. Just consideration. "Friends."

Stewart laughed as Annie climbed down off his lap. "Ah, our feisty Meredith, saving you from the embarrassment of botching a third attempt at being romantic and debonair. Congratulations, though."

Meredith snorted. "I wasn't saving him from anything. I was just throwing a tantrum. An I want to be engaged, and I want it now, now, now, sort of thing."

The mattress dipped and shuddered as Annie grabbed the railing and climbed up onto the bed. Derek lost track of the conversation, but the words kept flowing back and forth. The soft feminine cadences of his mother and Meredith, and the more guttural deepness of Stewart mingled into a background hum.

"Hey there," he said, smiling as Annie wormed her way up toward the pillows. He grunted when she collapsed heavily onto his lap. She'd dragged a little pink backpack with her and left it sitting by his hip. He wrapped his arms around her tiny, warm body. She was almost six, and she combined the best features of Sarah and Stewart together in a striking combination that he was sure would break a lot of hearts when she got older. And, as her tiny hands clawed at him, grabbing tufts of his shirt, and she jerked and moved, trying to get settled in a way only a small, bubbly child could, he noted she didn't seem to be treating him like he was breakable. Which was nice. He grunted as her elbow jammed into his side, and she finally figured out exactly what position she wanted to be resting in. Her quick breaths slowed as she settled.

She peered up at him with wide, blue, unblinking eyes. "Why were you walkin' funny, Uncle Derek?" she whispered.

"Annie!" Stewart said, interrupting the slow crawl of Derek's thoughts. Stewart stood up and moved toward the bed, reaching for her with a long, lanky arm. "We talked about this," he said, his voice lowering in warning. Stewart made an imposing figure at six foot five, even when Derek was on his feet. "What do we need to be?"

Annie frowned, her lower lip quivering. "Quiet," she said.

"No, it's okay," Derek said, closing his eyes for a minute, letting the tiredness thrum. "She's fine." He didn't want to be the sick guy. And he didn't want his damned family to have rules about speaking to him. He didn't want… He just wanted to be awake and part of things again. And Annie was…

Comforting. Despite her directness.

"You sure?" Stewart asked.

"Yeah," Derek said. "I'll tell you if she's bothering me."

Stewart, appeased, went back to sit by Ellen, and the chatter resumed. Meredith had such beautiful laughter. Derek rubbed Annie's back absently. Maybe kids. Meredith had said maybe kids. Maybe this would be for real someday. He wondered what they'd look like.

He looked down at his small charge. Why was he walking funny? "I don't feel very well, that's all," he explained, surprised at how easy it was to admit to her, probably because of the way she looked at him after he'd admitted it. No pity. No reply about how he should be taking more morphine, or how he should be sleeping, or telling him to get up when he didn't think he could, or staring at him with knowledge that this was Derek Shepherd and he'd been cut down by a little physical hardship when so many people out there were worse off, or knowing him from before, when he'd been that cheerful, sarcastic surgeon who thought he was a gift to whomever received him. Nothing of the sort. Just more curiosity.

"Like when I get sick and get to stay home from school?" Annie asked.

"Yes, like that," Derek said. "Except I have to stay at the hospital for a few days before I get to stay at home."

"Aren't you a surgeoner like Mommy? Mommy says you're the bestest in your field. What's a field?"

"Surgeon, yes," he said, laughing softly as he corrected her. "A field is like… What I do all day. Your mom is a heart surgeon. She fixes hearts. I'm a brain surgeon. I fix brains." He'd oversimplified it, he knew, but he didn't think he could figure out how to explain nerves right then.

"That's gross," Annie replied, glancing around at the room. "I'm gonna be the President. You don't even get to miss work then? That sucks."

"I'm missing work. I think you'd make a great President. You have the taking charge thing down pat already."

She smiled at his compliment. "But you work in the hopspital!" she said, gesturing wildly, votes and vetoes forgotten as she realized what she thought was the true horror of his situation. "You're at work!"

"Well," he said. "I'm not working right now."

"That's good," she decided with a nod. "They'd probably be mad at you for sleeping. I get yelled at for sleeping when I'm at school sometimes," she whispered conspiratorially. She leaned forward, twisting against him, one of her hands grasping at his shoulder while she sort of stood, sort of didn't. Derek reached up instinctively to steady her, splaying his palm against her torso, grunting as she jabbed at him some more, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter because she was jabbing him and she didn't care. He was Uncle Derek. He could take it. She giggled, reaching for the nasal cannula. She ended up tweaking his nose a little.

"Watch out," he commented, clicking his teeth together as he nipped at the air and made a light growling noise. She shrieked with a surprised giggle and fell back against him.

"Annie," Stewart said, his voice low in warning.

Annie clapped her hands over her mouth. "Sorry, Daddy, I'm being quiet," she said between the cracks of her fingers, muffled. "I'm not bugging Uncle Derek." She stared at him with wide eyes, silent, but her apparent resolve crumbled when her gaze stopped on the thing that had originally caught her attention. "What's that thing for?"

"It's really okay," Derek said to Stewart, laughing. He turned back to Annie. "It makes sure I get enough air."

"Oh, okay," she said. And then her attention wandered elsewhere. "Is your head cold?" she asked as she stared at the bandages with implacable curiosity. "Gramma can make you a hat. She made me a hat for Christmas. I wear it when it snows."

"My head's not cold," Derek said. "It's just where I'm sick."

"Oh. I brought crayons. Wanna color? It makes me feel better when I'm sick."

He grinned at her. "Sure."

"Okay!" she said excitedly as she shifted again, stabbing him with elbows and knees in a few places. She grabbed her little backpack and started routing through it. He closed his eyes during the brief period of rest, inhaling and exhaling softly as if it would somehow replenish his depleting reserves. He was tired, but it wasn't… He was okay. He didn't want to sleep. Not yet.

"So," he said, looking over to his mother as he dragged himself back into the room before his tired mind could shut down long enough for sleep. "Welcome to Seattle. You should ride the ferryboats for a good view. That thing last month was a total fluke."

"Oh, Der," his mother said. A look of worry crumbled her features.

"I'm fine, Mom," he assured her. "Was your flight okay? Where is everyone staying?" he closed his eyes. "Who… When…" His voice trailed away as his thoughts spun their wheels.

"Here!" Annie said as she broke into the sudden onslaught of confusion. She waved something at him too quickly for him to follow, his eyes widened, and a small sliver of fear slammed through the clouded blanket hovering over his senses. His short, surprised gasp brought with it the scent of wax, which, in turn, sent him tumbling back through the years to a box of crayons, back when he'd been young enough that drawing was still an acceptably cool activity and not just one relegated to school projects. Calm re-settled as Annie lectured on the object's proper use, oblivious to the sudden flash of upset. "You gotta use all the sides evenly so you don't wreck the points," she said.

"All right," he said as he reached to take the crayon from her grip. Her warm fingers met his, and he couldn't stop from smiling. She was so tiny. And unassuming. And bossy. Very bossy. Just like Meredith. "What are we drawing?"

Stewart, apparently seeing a disaster in the making, stood and rolled the tray table over. Annie scooted back and knelt against the opposite side. Annie's weight sank the tent of his thermal blankets into the canyon between his knees. Derek rested his wrists against the edge of the table, waiting as she gripped his knees fiercely and settled. He was trapped, but he smiled anyway. It was a good sort of trapped, he decided as Annie pondered his question very seriously.

"Ponies?" she said. "Or horses. Horses are bigger than ponies. I like horses."

"She's in a horse phase," Stewart explained as he pulled some paper out of her backpack for them and set it against the tray table. "She's been begging for riding lessons."

"Ah," Derek said, and then he turned to Annie. "Well, I'm fairly awful at horses." Or really anything artistic. He was definitely left-brained. "Mind if I draw something else?"

She giggled. "Sure."

"Derek…" his mother tried again as he stared at the blank page for a moment.

"I'm fine," he insisted. Annie was already scribbling a torrent of color down upon her paper like a storm cloud spattering rain on the world below. He had no idea where to even begin. He focused on the paper, trying to think of something, anything, but forcing thoughts through the haze made him realize how difficult it was, and he blinked, frustration building when his mental rifling supplied him with nothing but a hint of aching.

"Butterflies," Meredith whispered so quietly he almost wondered if he'd imagined it. "I liked butterflies when I was six." He realized she'd been watching him the whole time. Her gaze was warm and loving, and she stared at him and Annie with a vagueness behind her sparkling eyes, almost like she was lost in some distant daydream, like she was imagining someone entirely different than Annie sitting there, coloring.

A small someone. With light eyes. They both had light eyes, though he hoped they would be her gray and not his blue. Her gorgeous smile and maybe her light freckling. The hair was a mystery. Dirty blond, but thick and curly, he decided. And she would have to have Meredith's nose. Because his was just… Crooked. Which he liked to blame on the broken nose Mark had given him, but he couldn't remember back far enough to be sure it wasn't genetics. Unless it was a boy, his nose was absolutely no good. If it was a boy, then the crooked would be handsome. Rugged. A bit of poor symmetry meant rugged. And that would work for him in the long run, because rugged was the first rung on the ladder to sexy. Or so Meredith would say.

He smiled. "Butterflies it is," he said in a quiet voice before turning back to Stewart and his mother. He drew a long, flattened oval and began attaching curvy wings to it.

"Where is everyone staying?" he asked again. What's going on?

"Sarah and I were planning on checking into a hotel later," Stewart replied. "Mom's—"

"Staying in Mark's spare bedroom," his mother said. Her tone was wary, as if she expected him to object, but he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to care anymore. Mark was Mark. Mark would always be Mark. Hate was a wasted emotion when Mark would never, ever understand what he'd done. And Mark was… Things would never be the same, but without the hate… Derek couldn't bring himself to wish Mark away from the people who were his family in spirit though not in blood.

"Oh," Derek said, turning to Stewart. "You shouldn't have to stay at a hotel, you could…" he began, and then he stopped, his crayon paused, and his gaze flicked to Meredith as he realized the verbal stumble he'd almost gotten himself into. He met Meredith's eyes, and she blinked, smiled, and reached to brush his wrist as her eyes narrowed with affection and just… Being. Her touch sent a shiver up his arm, and he sighed when she lingered like a moth to a flame. Her thumb trailed along the bump of a vein in his wrist, searching, soothing.

"Yeah," Meredith said, directing her words to Stewart. "You guys could stay at our house." Our house. The words broke through the buzzing opiates like spears. And then she turned back to Derek. She added in a softer voice that made his heart melt. "It's your house, too, Derek. You can offer."

He swallowed against the sudden blur. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. He hadn't wanted to presume. Not only because it technically wasn't his house, but also because he knew the only bedroom she really had to give out at will was the master bedroom since the others all had renting occupants. She'd said she was going to stay with him the whole week. Stay the whole time. But… He hadn't rationally expected that she meant the **whole** week, as in every minute, second, and slice of time between. It was unfair to her. On-call rooms were really not all that restful with all the comings and goings of tired doctors and nurses who could only spare five or ten minutes, and her curling up in the sliver of space left to her on his hospital bed seemed cruel. The beds were really only meant for one person. And he had people checking on him at all hours, which would wake her up. But, if she gave away the master bedroom, that cemented the fact that she would be there. All the time. And that… Strangely made the homesickness burn a little brighter. He wanted to go home and curl up in their own bed, for him, so he could finally be a normal person again, out of the scrutiny, off of the stage where his body maintained an unending soliloquy, and for her, because he hated that she would be suffering with him, and he hated that he didn't have the courage to tell her not to.

"Thanks, that'd be great," Stewart replied.

"You can take the master bedroom," Meredith said. "The girls will have to sleep in the den, though. I've got a bit of a full house thing going on."

Stewart smiled. "Sarah mentioned you have a couple roommates."

Something jabbed Derek's leg. He sniffled and blinked. "You gotta color, Uncle Derek!" Annie snarled at him, but it was a cute sort of snarl that made him laugh because she looked so damned serious, as if coloring were all that stood between him and collapse of the universe.

"Okay, okay, I'm coloring," he said against the low, weepy feeling hovering in the back of his throat. Home would be nice. He gestured at the brown muddle of stuff on her page. Annie, it seemed, like him, was not much of an artist, but he felt compelled to say, "That's beautiful," anyway. She grinned at him, eyes twinkling with a brilliant sparkle of innocence and belief, belief that her Uncle Derek thought she was some sort of Picasso or Monet, and it melted him, made him, for just that one moment, forget where he was, and he loved her for it. He loved her for it even when the slow pang that followed reminded him that Meredith had said only maybe, and he shouldn't get his hopes up again. He shouldn't. He couldn't.

One of the hardest things about his family's yearly reunions and holiday get togethers had always been seeing his sisters' families sprout up around him one tiny, bubbly new body at a time. Addison had always played well with the kids, but she'd never seemed to revel in it. He wondered when it had been that he'd lost that last sliver of hope with her. Derek Shepherd. Not a father. He couldn't pinpoint when the final moment had been, but he was pretty sure it would have been over one of their many Christmases or Thanksgivings in the crush of the sprawling Shepherd clan. Perhaps on a morning when the wrapping paper had been flying about in a storm of bits and pieces, while he had been staring wistfully, and she'd only been happily watching the fray, as if she didn't seem to know or care that she was missing something vital to be a part of the moment instead of just a watcher.

"Where's everyone else?" he asked, trying to force himself onto another train of thought as he started to fill in the blobby wings he'd offered his rather inartistic butterfly with blotches of wax-smelling color. Meredith caught his gaze, and he swallowed as his crayon stopped moving. She knew. She knew what he'd been thinking then, he was certain. She smiled at him shyly instead of glaring, telling him to put his pipedreams away.

"Sarah took Lindsey to the cafeteria a few minutes before you woke up," Stewart rattled on, unaware of the exchange that said so much without a word. "Mark is off doing doctor things. I don't know. Something about a nose. Or maybe it was a bre—" He paused, his gaze wandering to Annie. "Stuff," he corrected before continuing. "Nobody else was able to make it so soon after taking a week off, but I'm under strict orders to make sure your brain is only as scrambled as it used to be and to report back in painstaking detail."

"Stewart!" Ellen hissed softly.

"What, he's fine!" Stewart said. He pointed at the tray table. "Look at the horse he colored. It's perfect."

"I wasn't drawing a horse," Derek said.

Stewart recovered quickly. "Well, see," he said after a rolling, choking sort of stutter, "It's so perfect it's transcended its original species."

"Thanks, Stu," Derek said, his voice wry as he stared down at his butterfly. He supposed, if one was as mentally deficient as Stewart, that it could be interpreted as a malformed equine. With blue spots and antennae. He secured himself in the knowledge that Stewart was just being Stewart.

"Annie," Derek said, his voice low, conspiratorial. "I heard that Daddy wants to take you to riding lessons. He just needs to be convinced."

"Really?" she squeaked.

Stewart's jaw dropped. "Low, Derek. Sarah will have words with you later, I'm sure."

"Scrambled brain. In morphine veritas," Derek replied, smirking. "What can I say?"

A knock on the door brought all of their gazes up. "Dr. Shepherd?" an orderly said as he carried in a tray that smelled vaguely of warm but unidentifiable food. He stepped near to the bed and stopped, staring at the tray table expectantly.

Stewart swooped in and gathered Annie up into his arms. "All right, Starshine," he said as he gave the side of her cheek a loud raspberry kiss. "Let's move so Uncle Derek can eat."

He set her down on the floor. She pouted, tugging at Stewart's pant leg with her tiny fingers. "But Uncle Derek likes to color!"

"I know he does, sweetie," Stewart replied absently as he started gathering up her crayons and moving things out of the way. Derek watched as his amoebic butterfly got folded up with Annie's blobby horses. "But I bet he also likes to not starve. Shall we go to the cafeteria and see if Mommy has robbed the buffet of all its Jell-O?"

The orderly dropped off the tray of food on the table, smiling. "Good to see you feeling better, Dr. Shepherd," he commented. Derek vaguely remembered him as Nick. They'd talked about the finer points of hockey at one point in the elevator. Derek had walked with Nick to transport a patient who'd been terrified. A woman who'd needed a keyhole craniotomy for a biopsy. The three of them had had a fine debate over why the Rangers were absolutely not going to win their next game, and why the NHL was going downhill.

"Thanks," Derek replied, too riveted with Annie and Stewart to feel very awkward about the sympathy. Nick disappeared as quickly as he'd arrived.

"Mommy wouldn't do that!" Annie said. "She'd save some for me."

"Would she?" Stewart replied. "She never saves any for me." He finished cramming everything back into her little backpack and handed it to her. She looped the straps over her shoulders, and then he roared affectionately as he lifted her up again and settled her against his hip.

Annie laughed. "But you don't like Jell-O."

"I never get any!" he said. "How can I say whether I like it or not? My, my, you're getting heavy," he groaned as he slouched, wilting on his knees as he faux-struggled to carry her. He stepped once, twice, three times toward the door, covering the distance easily with his long legs despite his stunted movement.

"Daddy!" Annie giggled.

Stewart made it to the door before he turned it around. "Tell me, does this hospital have its liquor license?"

Meredith laughed. "Hospitals generally don't do that, Stu."

"Rats," he said, snapping the fingers of his free hand. "I was hoping. Things are so much more progressive on the West Coast."

"The only alcohol you could find here is disinfectant," Derek said.

"Nasty stuff," Stewart replied, letting his tongue fall out as he made a snarling face of disgust. "Strips your throat right off…" His voice trailed away as he noticed everyone staring at him. "What? I was kidding. Honest. All right, all right. I can take the nasty, glare-y hints. I'll be in the cafeteria feeding my monsters so they can grow up to be just like their mother."

"Stewart…" Meredith began.

"Sarah, oh siren of my heart," Stewart belted jovially as he turned left and peered down the hall before looking back with a quirky grin. "Not all monsters are snarly, you know."

"Stewart!" Meredith said, slightly louder than before.

Stewart jumped at the sound. "Oh, listen. I can hear her calling, now. Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. My radar says this way," he said, pointing down the hallway after he'd done a full spin on his heels. He turned to Annie and waggled his eyebrows at her. "Would you agree, my little sirenette?"

Annie laughed, staring at him like he was the bright center of her world. Derek couldn't help but smile as her hands wrapped around Stewart's neck and she crinkled her grip against him. Stewart blew out a breath, sending a loose strand of hair flying, and gave her a floppy, Stewart smile.

"Stewart!" Meredith tried again.

"What?" he finally asked.

"Cafeteria is to the right, down four flights," Meredith said, pointing in the opposite direction Stewart had intended to go.

"Oh, yes, right. Well then," Stewart said, turning an about face. "Shall we go find Mommy?" he asked his small bundle, and then they traipsed down the hall to the right.

Silence hovered in their wake, and Derek felt the levity slipping away from him drip by drip, until it seemed as though his body were the filter, and happiness the fluid. The tiredness he'd pushed aside pulsed behind his gaze. He closed his eyes, resting his wrists on the tray table.

Food. Dinner. He was being fed. Finally. Instead of ice chips, or glasses of water, or liquid substitutes, or blobby, easy to eat things like pudding that didn't require chewing or much of any thought to consume beyond the effort of getting the utensil carrying it from the dish to his mouth. His first solid food in over a day. Almost two. The smell of it curled against his nostrils, and something inside him woke up a little. Hungry.

"They tried to bring you lunch, but you were out," Meredith said. "Seriously out. They took it away when it got cold. I didn't want to wake you up."

He opened his eyes again and moved the tray cover aside, revealing a rather appetizing-looking salad, steaming pieces of chicken loitering at the top like white, sandy islands floating atop a green sea. He fumbled with the little dressing packet, trying, trying to read what it said. Italian. Good enough. He sprinkled it lightly over the salad and tossed the lettuce with his fork.

His first bite was heaven. The tang of the dressing and the crunch of the lettuce as it ground between his teeth made it easy to pretend he was at home at the kitchen table, Meredith sitting across from him, reading the paper while she sipped at her coffee, or that he was standing on the hospital promenade, staring out at the distant, rolling green of Seattle's surrounding sprawl of life. As long as he kept his eyes closed, he wasn't in the hospital eating dreadful hospital food. It was solid and real. His teeth clicked against the tines of the fork, and the tips of the tines pressed against his tongue, painfully if he pressed hard enough. Real food. After his fifth bite, he leaned back against his pillow and sighed, resting for a moment. He'd barely made a dent, and already, tired. Just… Tired. His mind started to drift as he remembered just why he'd been too exhausted for lunch.

"Those nurses are slave drivers, you know," he mumbled. His fork dipped into his salad as his barely remembered grip loosened the rest of the way, and the drift became a doze.

"Oh, are they?" Meredith replied.

He broke to the surface again as quickly as he'd surrendered, blinking. "Mmm," he replied noncommittally, giving her what he hoped was his best, mischievous smirk, but he saw only concern when he stared back at her. Her gaze wandered to his accidentally discarded fork, followed the flow of his hand into his wrist, where the intravenous line snaked into a vein, and then up to his face again. He noticed, again, how deeply the circles gripped her eyes. He frowned. "What is it, Mere?"

"You should eat, Der," she said.

"I'm working on it," he said as he picked his fork back up again, brandishing it at her, attempting to be playful and managing somewhat. "It's solid, you know. I'm very excited."

"I can see that," she said as he took another bite and then another.

He smiled. "You just want me to get to the dessert so we can argue over who gets it." He gestured with the fork at the little dish that sat beside his salad plate.

"I do not!" she said.

"Do, too," he replied, taking another bite. "You can't pass up cheesecake."

She rolled her eyes. "Trust me, I can pass up hospital cheesecake."

"Lies," he said as he polished off a piece of chicken. It was a little chewy, but edible. "Here I am, helpless as a lamb, and you'd rob me of my hospital cheesecake."

She put her elbows on the railing and stared at him, her eyes crinkling up with a smile that reached every part of her face, making her skin almost glow. "Why don't you work on the salad first, and then we'll talk dessert."

"All right, all right," he said. "Playing the hard bargainer, are you? You can have the cheesecake if you kiss me first."

Her eyes twinkled. "I'd kiss you for less than cheesecake."

"Less than hospital cheesecake?"

"Totally for free," she said, almost purring, but not quite as she leaned in closer. "If you ask." Her chair rolled back across the floor as she stood and bent over the side railing. The scent of her mingled with the leafy smell of salad as her heat touched his, and her skin hovered centimeters away, burning.

"I'll take you up on that," he replied softly, captive in her gray, sparkling gaze.

"Right now?" she said.

He nodded. "Yes, definitely now."

"Ask me," she said.

"Will you kiss me, Meredith Grey?" he said.

"Yes," she said against his mouth. Their lips brushed lightly before she plunged, certain but searching. He reached for her neck with his free hand to steady himself, curled his fingers against her throat, and then ran his palm up through her soft, lavender-scented hair, snaking his fingers through the strands.

"Mmm," he moaned as she licked. The fork clanked from his nerveless fingers. She dotted her first kiss with a second quick peck, like bird dipping down for water from a lake. And then she sat back down, breathless.

After a moment of helpless swirling, he blinked himself back to the present. "I don't suppose I could have a spare for good luck?" he said.

She smiled. "Eat your salad, Derek."

He smirked at her before picking up his fork. He nudged the cheesecake plate in her direction. "It's yours if you want it," he said.

She glanced at it, and he could tell from the look on her face that she'd been planning to say no when her stomach let loose the most raucous gurgle he'd ever heard. How such large sounds could come from such a small body, he'd never figure out. Never ever. He grinned. "Your stomach seems to want it," he commented, pushing the little plate closer to her.

"Meredith, dear," Ellen said from the sofa. At some point, she'd resumed her knitting, and he hadn't even noticed. He blinked, amazed, yet again, at how ruined his observational skills had become in the haze. "Have you eaten?" she said.

"Oh, sure," Meredith said. Her skin flushed. "Um. Yeah. I think."

Derek frowned as another bite of chicken slipped down his throat. "You think?" he said. How could she not remember when she'd last eaten?

"Breakfast?" she offered helplessly, shrugging. "Maybe? A snack? I think I had a snack thing. Um. One of those little nut bars. Izzie made me. She said it helped keep good energy flow. Or something. I think. It tasted like crap."

"Oh, Meredith, dear," Ellen said as she placed her knitting project to the side and stood. "You should go and get something with Stewart and the girls."

Meredith's eyes widened. She shook her head. "No, it's okay. I can… I can stay."

"Don't worry, Mere, it's not like I'm going anywhere," Derek replied, worried. "And if I did, I'm very certain you could catch me."

"You're sure?"

"That you could catch me?" he replied, looking down at himself, swathed in blankets. It was a five minute ordeal just to get out of the damned bed, let alone walk away from it. "Absolutely."

She frowned. "Derek…"

"Go eat, Mere," he said, flashing her the best smirky look he could manage. "I'll be fine."

She gave him a weak, watery smile. "O- Okay," she stuttered. She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "I'll be back in a few minutes, I swear."

"Take your time," he replied, frowning as she parted. He leaned back against his pillow, letting his eyelids fall shut on her parting figure. She hadn't been eating? Why wouldn't she have been…

He swallowed, suddenly feeling awful. He'd been so wrapped up in his own discomfort, he hadn't really thought much about her, about her constant watching. She took bathroom breaks. She'd disappeared for a long shower. But, now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen her eat. Hadn't seen her sleep. Whenever he'd paid attention, she'd had her nose buried in a book, or she'd been wrapped around him or his hand, trying to make him feel less like his whole world was crumbling down.

He drifted in the mire as the floor nurse, Abasi, came to check his intravenous line and vitals. The nurse gently lifted Derek's wrist and felt for his pulse. "How are you feeling, Dr. Shepherd?" Abasi asked quietly. "Any pain?"

"Tired, but no pain," Derek answered.

"Wonderful," Abasi replied as he scribbled quick notes on Derek's chart with a gold-colored ballpoint pen. "Good evening, Mrs. Shepherd," he added politely. And then Abasi departed like a wraith as quietly as he'd come. He was the most unobtrusive, quick nurse Derek had ever met, and Derek appreciated it.

The room started to fuzz. He was vaguely aware of his mother moving, shifting. He heard a chair scoot up against the side of the bed. The earthy, flowery, rainy scent of her perfume wafted in the space to his right. Her quiet breathing fanned into the air, close, but not intimate like Meredith's when she hovered close. A quiet, hollow sound of flesh gripping the railing next to him preceded a light, warm but weathered hand against his cheek.

"M'okay, Mom," he muttered as her fingers brushed thin, soft lines against his forehead, like she were trying to run her fingers through his hair but was frustrated to find that she no longer could. And then his awareness faded to black.

He snapped awake. His mother sat next to him, knitting needles clinking softly in the relative silence. He wiped a hand over his face. He swallowed. His mouth felt pasty again with sleep. How long? He glanced at his watch, looking at it blearily. Twenty-five minutes. He felt slightly more rested, though, ready to start picking at the remnants of his salad.

His mother frowned at him. "Derek?"

"I'm just tired, Mom," he said. "Anesthesia makes people tired," he clarified. And then he brushed the subject away. He wished she would stop treating him like he was dying. "So, you're staying with Mark?"

She folded her project into her lap, kneading her fingers against the clot of thread. "Yes," she said. "He offered when he picked me up. And I… I didn't want to impose. On you."

"You're never imposing, Mom."

She smiled at him. "This place is lovely, you know. So much nicer than Mount Sinai. Very green. I can see why you like it here. The view off the promenade is gorgeous."

"The promenade is my favorite spot," he said. "That and the ferries. Seattle sort of grew on me."

His mother nodded. "Meredith grew on you, too."

"She didn't really have to grow on me, Mom," he replied. "She just suddenly was."

She grinned, leaning forward to grasp his hand. "I meant since I first met her. You fit," she said as she squeezed his palm. "You two remind me of your father and I. We loved each other. But then we really, really loved each other. The end result of what we had certainly didn't happen overnight."

He drifted with the gentle, earthy cadence of her voice. "Hmm?" he muttered, suddenly realizing she'd finished and was staring, her silver-streaked hair, serious, deep blue eyes, and timeworn skin giving her a sage, comforting look.

"The two of you," she said, patiently waiting for him to catch up before she continued. "I've never seen you so happy, all things considered. You remind me of your father so very much." Her lower lip quivered, and her eyes reddened as she sniffled, which made him want to crumple. "Your smile is the same. And the way your eyes sparkle when you're delighted. And your laugh. Meredith makes you laugh, and it's lovely."

Tears dotted her face as she looked down at his hand, clasped in hers. He sighed. "I'm fine, Mom. Really."

"She's very worried about you," Ellen said. "She reminds me of me."

"I didn't mean to scare her," he said, fighting back the lump in his throat. "Or you."

"Of course not, sweetheart," Ellen whispered. "I'm worried, though. It doesn't look like she's slept a wink in days. And the poor girl hasn't eaten. She's barely gotten up since I arrived." She didn't finish her assessment with her thoughts on him, instead remaining silent. But he saw it in her eyes. And you. And you, Derek. You're so frail and sick and not yourself. You remind me of the man that I lost.

"Mom…"

"Don't Mom me," Ellen scolded as she let go of him and wiped at her face, sniffling. She gestured at his salad. "Eat. I don't need two starving children."

"Mom…" he said out of habit, sighing as he picked up his fork and took another bite. Another. Another. The food didn't taste quite as good anymore, but she was watching him like if he didn't finish every scrap it was a sign he was going to keel over and die any second. He chewed, subconsciously matching the soft, distant rhythm of his heart monitor.

"I was so frightened. When Meredith called me," Ellen admitted.

He put his fork down and turned to her, clearing his throat, awkward, scratchy, threatening to open up with grief. "Oh, Mom. It's not… It's not like Dad," he said, his eyes pricking up with new, exhausted tears. "I'm fine. I'll be fine, now. I'm a neurosurgeon. I know," he said, though he knew it was sort of a lie.

He didn't know.

There were still a whole slew of things that could go wrong. And he hadn't really tested himself cognitively yet. Just from his trouble thinking so far, he knew that he hadn't been spared troubles concentrating. Those would clear over the course of his recovery, unless Dr. Weller had done something to permanently impair him or the hematoma had done something that wasn't fixable. But his mother didn't need to know about that. She didn't need to know about the potential for him to develop a seizure disorder, or about any of the other complications that could develop and send him back for yet another craniotomy, or even the more mundane things that could go wrong from any sort of surgery. Infection and fever. Post-operative pneumonia. She didn't…

"I may not know medicine like you and your sisters and Meredith," she said, interrupting his mental spiraling in time to save him from a dark well of fear, but not in time to save him from the guilt or the clawing upset she had churned up inside him. "But I know it was very serious, Derek, and that it still is. You almost died. I know. Meredith was…"

"I didn't mean to scare her," he insisted. "Or you. Or…"

"Hush," she said, her tone dropping into the soft, calm, earthy sound that made her words more of a mood than things with definitive meaning. Hush. Never fear. It was her soft, mothering tone that made everything all right. _It's all right. I'll always be here. And your father will always be with you. Here._ She'd touched his chest and curled him into her embrace. It'd been the last time he'd gone to her. The last time, when his dad had still been an open wound, and he'd needed it. He could remember her rocking him softly until he'd fallen asleep, drowning in tears. It was one of the sharper memories he had of his earlier childhood, which was odd, because most of the things he could remember about his father were just distant impressions. The sound of his laughter. A scent. A smile. The splotchy pattern on his favorite tie.

"You're not to blame," his mother said.

"I'm sorry, anyway," he admitted as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Meredith's already had enough to deal with. She doesn't need this. You didn't need this. Nobody needed this." He stared at the remainder of his salad. There were perhaps five more bites left, but he wasn't hungry anymore. His stomach was satisfied, and all that remained was the tiredness that told him he was about to lose the world again if he let his eyelids fall shut for more than a blink.

"How are you, Der," his mother whispered. "How are you, really?"

He swallowed. Tired. Cloudy. Scatterbrained. Homesick. Weak. Sick. Embarrassed. Stripped. Scared. "Can we, please, not talk about me?" he said quietly. "When we talk about me, I feel like I look."

She nodded. "All right," she said. "All right, sweetheart. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel worse. Never that."

She leaned forward against the railing and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into her embrace, and he found he couldn't resist, nor did he want to.

"Mom…" he said, helpless as the tears began to fall in earnest. He felt better. Better, but not good. Tired. Cloudy. Meredith had helped him, but she'd done it at the cost of her own health, and that was… He had to stop being so ill. He had to…

But he couldn't.

And that was the simple fact of it.

"Hush, Der," she whispered, sighing against his ear. "And let me hug my stubborn son." Her warmth wrapped around him. And he couldn't do it anymore. He fell apart.

"I'm so tired," he said, his breaths hitching. "And I can't fix it."

"There's someone you can fix," Ellen replied as she rubbed a palm down his back. The fabric rustled. He sighed. "She just needs a nudge. She has a lot of words twisted up inside, and she's not saying them."

When his mother finally released him, he felt better. He pulled it back inside again. The coiling ugliness that kept leaking out. He was better. Not good. But better. Better enough that he could at least give a nudge.

And that was something.


	43. Chapter 41

**Author's Notes: Thank you so much for the comments, everyone. Lots of things come full circle in this part, things I've been tangoing with since part 1. Thanks for sticking with me through the last block of parts. I know they weren't the happiest, but they brought me here. And I'm really happy to be here, finally. It only took me 41 parts and 300,000 words ;p **

* * *

Meredith picked at her hospital pizza and her hospital fries and her hospital diet Coke, staring at the coagulating mess of cheese and grease and badness on her plate while Lindsey and Annie played at a table two away from theirs, as if parents and a weird almost-aunt weren't special enough to sit with the kids. Lindsey was eight. Far too cool for her almost-six sister. The playing occasionally degenerated into a bit of a spat over who got to play with which toy. Sarah refereed when it got bad, but for the most part, the dolls and crayons and the girls stayed firmly in their own universe, fifteen feet away, leaving Meredith drowning at the table with Stewart and Sarah, who kept trying to talk to her as if they expected her to be some mentally coherent doctor or something, and not an exhausted, scared fiancé. Or maybe just a mentally coherent fiancé and not a scared one. The talk rarely moved to the medical thing. Sarah had enough understanding of Derek's condition and surgery that she didn't ask much, and she must have filled Stewart in at some point, because Stewart seemed more fascinated with his Jell-O cup than about asking whether Derek would be okay. 

Which was good, because Meredith didn't think she could do supportive for anyone but Derek at that point, though, even that made her feel like she was scraping her mental spoon at the bottom of a desiccated pitcher. And she certainly couldn't do coherent.

Somewhere in the blur, Meredith caught snippets about Sarah's and Stewart's flight and how they'd been lucky to get seats at the last minute. Ellen hadn't even mentioned them coming along during her frequent phone calls for updates and information. Genuine surprise had snarled in Meredith's brain, dragging her tiredness away momentarily when Mark had arrived at the door to Derek's quiet hospital room with a trail of jetlagged people slogging behind him.

Meredith had almost found herself crawling into an old, ugly hole of anti-family she'd thought she'd never return to, wishing they'd all just go away and take their noise and questions and blanket of saccharine, smothering caring away so she could be alone, listening to Derek sleep. But Derek loved his family, so she'd forced herself to deal with the noise and the people and the mountain of sympathetic caring that'd made her teeth grate. Somewhere in the haze, she'd quietly re-arrived at acceptance and wary appreciation. It'd only taken an hour or two. Then Ellen had made her go eat when all she'd wanted to do was stay, and a brief, vague cycle of hate had started again.

Was that normal? The yo-yo of wanting company and then wanting it to all go away?

She stared at her plate. She wasn't a neglectful person. When she felt hungry, she ate. When she'd been having the little cheesecake tiff with Derek, she hadn't been hungry. She hadn't. Her stomach was just a rebellious organ in its stupid pink hair phase and it'd growled said rebelliousness to the world. This was evidenced by the fact that her cold pizza and grease-glinting fries did nothing for her but shine. Right? Pizza was food. Pizza was good. She liked pizza.

She was going insane.

She poked her fork at the cheese, which stretched as she drew the tines away until the melting, dairy goo snapped and sprang backward onto the plate. Her fork hung suspended in the air from her fingers, almost two feet away from the table, a little curl of cheese wrapped around it, and her pizza lay on the plate, the surface of it broken and mangled. Her stomach responded, but not in a friendly feed-me way. More in a flip-flop of doom way.

She bit her lip and took a quick sip of her soda to quiet it, noticing, finally, as the swallow of drink settled and spread a chill deep into her torso, that Stewart and Sarah were both staring at her, unblinking, silent. Sarah had put her chair up against Stewart's and had leaned back against his large frame. She sighed as he worked his large, long fingers against the perfect creamy skin above her shoulders.

Sarah wore old jeans and a holey, black t-shirt that had the Rolling Stones tongue logo sprawled across the breast. Her dark, almost-midnight hair hung loose and fluffy and wispy, done in a careless-but-styled way that draped slightly past her shoulders. Thin hints of bangs streaked down against her eyes, which were blue, but deeply so, almost appearing black in the dim cafeteria lighting, sort of like Derek's did when they were in the almost-dark. A demure, sparkly tennis bracelet gripped Sarah's right wrist, and her wedding and engagement rings encircled her left ring finger, but otherwise, she seemed like she'd just rolled out of bed looking that gorgeous, no careful preparation, no artfully adorned metal or clothing affixed specifically to draw out her best features, and if she wore makeup, it was subtle enough to be silent in the overall glowing picture.

She was thin and pretty in a way that defied logic. Completely defied it. Because Sarah liked Jell-O, consumed tons of cookie dough, and didn't seem to care at all about how much she ate or what rules of fashion she defied. Which, really, just wasn't fair. People with metabolisms rivaling nuclear reactors weren't fair. And people who looked gorgeous on top of it? Not. Freaking. Fair. Meredith glanced at her pile of grease masquerading as a meal. Okay, at least the latter half about the gorgeousness made her slightly less hypocritical.

"Sorry, what?" Meredith asked dumbly when the staring continued.

Sarah's eyes dipped shut as Stewart hit a tense spot. A lazy smile dripped over her features. She pawed lightly at him, and he pulled his hands away. She leaned forward and grinned. "Meredith, honey, may I?" she said, pointing at Meredith's left hand. "I didn't get a chance to look earlier."

Meredith followed Sarah's gesture and landed her gaze on her ring. The simple princess cut platinum solitaire. She put her fork down against the plate with a clank. She couldn't help the small grin that chipped away at the churning bits of… everything else. She tilted her hand back and forth, catching the light, letting herself bathe in the small ache of relief for a moment before she looked back up and held her hand out.

"Sure," Meredith said.

Sarah's chair squealed as she dragged it across the floor, away from Stewart, closer to Meredith. Her thin, arching fingers brushed Meredith's, warm and soft and light. "It's lovely," Sarah said. "Did he take you to Eamon's?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, I love that store," Stewart said. "Whenever she's mad at me, if I get something from there it goes away."

"Stewart!" Sarah said, laughing.

He grinned. "What, I'm trainable."

"Yeah, we went there," Meredith said, easing back into her chair, away from the icky pile of food on her plate. She closed her eyes. The shop seemed like a painted watercolor behind her eyelids. She could remember the sudden silence as Derek, hands splayed softly against the small of her back, had guided her into the shop, out of the bustle of Manhattan and into Eamon's glittery world. She could remember the glow of the display cases. The old, lived-in smell of the building. The sparkle in Derek's eyes and in the endless rows of rings. Expensive rings. _I just want you to have what you want_, Derek had whispered against the rolling pile of doubt and imminent freak-out. She couldn't believe that it'd been less than a week ago.

Life had the propensity to change in spurts on her. Boom, father is gone. Boom, mother is sick. Boom, the guy you slept with is your boss. Said boss is married. Bombs are going off. Boss is divorced. Appendicitis. Boss is Derek again, and he's with you. Mother is lucid. You're dead in the water. Mother is dead. Derek doesn't remember. Now you have a family. Now you're engaged. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Derek's almost dead.

Boom.

Meredith laughed as tension coiled between the firecrackers going off in her head, and it was suddenly bright and hot and loud despite the circulating cool air and the dull murmur of the crowd around them, scattered across the expanse of tables in random, conversing groups of dueling heartbeats.

"Surprised the crap out of me when I realized we were in a jewelry store," she said with a clipped sigh, trying, trying so hard to remember the essence of the moment in a real sense, a sense that let her live it, but something was wrong, and she couldn't. She'd been happy. And now she almost couldn't remember how to do that. Tired. Stupid, stupid tiredness. Stupid test. Stupid seizures and dying and fear and worry and churning and waiting and watching, helpless.

Stupid nightmares. Ruining her resolve.

"It took me three hours to pick something," Meredith continued as she picked up her fork and started to worry at the cheese on her pizza again. It was a quiet, unresisting victim that bowed under the weight of her need for… something. To beat something. Because everything else she wanted to beat was amorphous. Conceptual. And she couldn't beat the crap out of a concept. She could beat the crap out of pizza cheese, though.

"I didn't know ring buying was so involved," she said, stabbing with her fork. "Did you know there's shapes and colors and sizes and metals and… Of course you do. You live in New York, and you're gorgeous." She stabbed at her plate. "Who wouldn't have gorgeous jewelry to go along with said gorgeousness?" Stab. "Plus, you recommended the store, which implies that you've been there." Stab. "It's sad that I have an ex-freaking-model for a friend, and when I try to think of the most irrationally pretty person I know, it's you, not her." Stab, stab, stab. "And I don't seem to be shutting up again. This happens when I'm nervous. And starving except not really, because this pizza looks awful and I can't… I'm… I want. And tired. Sorry. I'm just…"

Her shoulders started to shake. Her eyes stung. She wiped her fingers against her face, but they came back dry. Something was wrong. She felt like she should cry buckets, and nothing was shaking loose. It was all just…

Awful. And stuck. And she hated it. And them. And everything.

"It's okay, Meredith," Sarah said, her palm flat against Meredith's trembling back. She was vaguely aware of Stewart, ratcheting up to his full, towering height. He disappeared through the propped-open swing door to the cafeteria line at a quickened pace.

"Maybe I should go back," Meredith said. Her throat hurt. "I've been here a half hour already, and I…"

She started to stand, only to have Sarah's firm grip drag her back down into the chair, not that she required much force to keep down. "Mere, sit," Sarah commanded. "You need to slow down. You need to breathe. And you need to eat."

"I'm sorry," Meredith replied. "I just… It's been a half hour, and I don't want—"

"Mom's with him," Sarah assured her. "She needs… She needs some time, Meredith. Do you know how Dad died?"

Meredith sniffled. "Derek told me."

"Let her have a few minutes with him, Mere," Sarah said. "You're running yourself down, and Mom needs… Mom really needs some time with him. She was… I've never seen her this upset before. Give her some time." Sarah's hand paused its endless, soothing circles, and, as if she sensed her politically veiled avoidance of Meredith's upset wasn't working, she leaned in and murmured just as politically, "He knows you're here and that you love him. You need to recuperate from this just as much as he does. It's not a crime to take an hour for yourself. Even when he's sick."

Meredith stared at her lap. Forty-five minutes had been enough the last time to break everything. But Sarah seemed so certain. So sure. Almost like a teacher. You'll learn, Meredith. After you've had a few years of practice at the marriage thing and the family thing and the support thing. You'll learn.

Meredith took a deep, cleansing breath, trying to ignore the way her spine seemed to want to crumple. She wanted to sleep, but sleeping was wrong and scary and… She couldn't. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't do that either, for many of the same reasons.

Stewart returned with a bundle of items piled on a tray, items that were about fifty times as healthy as her chilled, mangled pizza and fries. A steaming pita filled with salad-y stuff and meat, probably grilled chicken, and a cup of strawberry yogurt. Sarah leaned forward and took the pizza away as Stewart swooped in with Meredith's-attempt-to-consume-solids, take 2.0. "This might be easier to work at than an indigestible glob of fat on bread," he said as he set the tray down for her.

"Mommy!" Lindsey said, bouncing up from her seat with an artistic scribble of color sprawled across the paper in her grip, drawing everyone's attention away. "Look!"

Sarah smiled as she looked over. "That's very beautiful, Linds. You should show it to Uncle Derek later."

"Sure," Lindsey said. "Can we go see the Space Needle tomorrow?"

"Maybe," Stewart said. "We'll have to talk with Aunt Meredith and get a list of all the blatant tourist traps. Then we can be sure to be victimized by each and every one. It could be fun."

Lindsey giggled. "Right, Dad," she said. "I'll look online tonight. Aunt Meredith, do you have wireless?"

Stewart smiled. "She's a genius."

"Yeah," Meredith said, swallowing against the lump in her throat. "Derek uses it with his laptop."

"Awesome," Lindsey said.

Lindsey went back to her coloring, and Stewart and Sarah returned to their careful watch as if they expected Meredith to explode any moment like a volcano. Like quiet, unassuming Mount Rainier. Supposedly inactive. But when was anything ever totally guaranteed? For a second, all she could do was stare at the plate, blinking. They were both watching her, concern biting at their features. She swallowed, dry and hurting under the scrutiny.

It was weird. Weird to suddenly have a whole secondary rung to what had been her formerly shaky support structure. Derek. Friends. Both extremely effective when she let them be effective. But she'd died anyway. She'd been able to push Derek and her friends away. Avoiding five people wasn't so difficult when she really wanted to avoid them. But now she had a bunch of brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and moms and… The family thing. Dozens of freaking people. She felt like a fly caught hopelessly in a web.

"I love strawberry," Meredith murmured as she took the little cup of yogurt. The yogurt was pink, and telltale bits and pieces of fleshy berry littered the smooth surface. Condensation dotted the outside of the plastic cup, and it felt cool against the heat of her palm. A spoon appeared in front of her. She took it from Stewart's long, spindly grip, and she dipped it into the mess. "Thank you," she said as she swallowed the first bite. The cream slaked the fire in her throat.

Sarah backed off an inch, and the two of them let Meredith eat the yogurt in silence. Sarah and Stewart chatted about other things, things Meredith didn't really have much to do with or any reason to know about, plans for the week that didn't involve the hospital, such as the Space Needle and the aquarium, shopping to get the girls ready for when school would start again, calling the repair guy to fix their bathtub, because the caulking needed to be replaced… Despite the calm and the seeming lack of attention to every sliver of movement she made, though, Meredith had the feeling that if she were to stand up and try to flee, she'd get tackled and dragged back to the table. When flies struggled in the web, the spiders always knew.

She finished the yogurt and raised the pita to her mouth, taking an experimental bite. It was warm, and the lettuce made it crunchy. A sharp hint of dressing gave it a bite, enough to wake her up a little. After two mouthfuls, she put it down on the plate and sighed, feeling better with just that much food in her system. She stilled when everything caught up with her in a rush.

They'd called her Aunt Meredith.

A week and a half, and she'd gone from that basket case who Derek thought might off herself alone in the bathtub to Aunt Meredith. Fiancé Meredith.

How did that happen?

She blinked, leaning back in her chair, watching through half-lidded eyes as Izzie and Alex wandered into the line to grab food. They must have been close to the end of their shifts. They'd started later than her. Had it really only been thirty-six hours? Derek had been pulled into surgery around eleven on Tuesday morning. And it was Wednesday. Almost nine. Thirty-six then. Including the crap before he'd been wheeled away. And she'd been awake for closer to forty.

The table shook as Stewart slammed his palm against the table. "I figured it out!" he said, triumphant, celebratory. "Sorry, babe," he commented in addendum, as if he realized his random outburst had outed the fact that his mind had been somewhat elsewhere. Meredith, somehow, didn't think that his exclamation had much to do with his and Sarah's casual discussion about how they liked Seattle so far.

"What?" said Sarah.

But Stewart broke his gaze from Sarah and turned to Meredith. He gave her a devilish smile that looked particularly evil against his angular features, pale skin, and black hair. "It was during…" he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "When he proposed to you. During. I underestimated him. I mistakenly thought the redo was because he was being a dork."

Sarah made a sputtering sound that could have been suppressed laughter. Her hand flew up to her mouth, her shoulders shook, and she managed to stutter between gasps, "Oh, good grief, Stu… you're still… going on about that?"

Stewart shook his head. "Nope! Because I finally figured it out! Right?"

_Marry me._

Both of them peered at Meredith, Sarah flushed beet-red and snuffling with laughter, Stewart serious, pondering. Meredith swallowed, heat burning across her cheeks, spreading, everywhere. Hot. The room. Hot.

"Izzie! Alex!" Meredith snapped as she saw her friends come back out of the line with trays in hand. Alex stared at them with particular interest, his gaze wandering up and down Stewart's profile, calculating, assessing. "Come sit over here!" It was such a thinly veiled save-me that she was certain everyone knew exactly what she was doing. Sarah snorted with the laughter she failed to smother, and Stewart grinned like the Cheshire cat.

Izzie and Alex weaved through the tables and came over.

"Hello," Izzie said hesitantly as she pulled up a chair, laying a tray in front of her with a strawberry yogurt cup identical to Meredith's, an apple, and a sandwich spread out artistically on it like a painting done with food and not so much a meal.

"Dude," Alex said, looking at Stewart, his eyes widening. "Are you…?"

Stewart stood and proffered his hand across the table. "Yeah. Stewart Manning," he said. "Nice to meet you. I'm one of Meredith's pending brothers-in-law."

Alex looked like he was going to explode as Stewart sat back down casually.

"Izzie, Alex," Meredith said, "This is Sarah, one of Derek's sisters, and Stewart, her husband." Alex's eyes narrowed in a brief flash of Meredith-are-you-insane? Then he relaxed again into his usual unflappable demeanor. She pointed to the table where the girls sat. "And that's Lindsey and Annie, Sarah's and Stewart's kids," she continued. "I've invited them to stay at the house while they're here visiting Derek. Sarah, Stewart, this is Izzie and Alex. My roommates. Fellow interns."

The pending explosion from before flooded Alex's re-schooled expression and sprawled across his face, overwhelming the unflappable, overwhelming, obliterating, laying waste. Meredith didn't think she'd ever seen such pure delight. His Adam's apple rippled down his throat as he swallowed. His temples bulged as he worked his jaw into a rapid series of clenching, unclenching, tension, relaxing. He looked like he wanted to say a million different things, and couldn't quite decide on which to begin with. Meredith frowned. What on earth?

Izzie looked down at her plate. "Everyone is getting married," she said.

Meredith didn't know when Izzie had found out for sure. She'd cornered Meredith on the way out of Derek's room that morning, shortly after Mark had finished quizzing her with plastics questions. "When!" Izzie had demanded, and then she'd sighed as she'd glanced into the room and caught Derek's pale, sleeping profile. Her eyes had tore up. She'd blinked, and she'd followed with a weepy, "Mere, you proposed. You. Proposed. Meredith, you! Seriously?" Then she'd degenerated into a frantic, spazzy little litany of mothering care that had ended with Meredith eating one of Izzie's nut bars while Izzie had sniffled and twittered about. Izzie's beeper had interrupted before Meredith had had a chance to swallow and answer, and Izzie had left with a frazzled, sobbing, "Crap! We'll talk later!" as she'd rounded the corner.

Now, she seemed positively subdued. And it was… Weird. And manic-depressive. And, when Meredith thought about it, totally Izzie.

"Dude, that last game, man," Alex said, oblivious to Izzie's melancholy. His fingers clenched at the side of the table, and he leaned toward Stewart. "That was… I was in the fifth row. Double overtime. It was f—" His words cut off sharply as his gaze darted to the kids two tables away. "Awesome," he corrected himself seamlessly, as if the stray beginnings of the smothered curse word had been an intentional stutter.

"Alex," Meredith said. "What are you talking about?"

Alex ignored her. "You got MVP for that, didn't you?"

Stewart grinned. "Yes."

Alex turned to Meredith and gestured helplessly. "It's Stewart Manning, Mere," he said, his tone reverent. As if that somehow explained everything.

"So?" Meredith said. She looked at Izzie, who didn't appear to care about the conversation going on around her. She poked at her food and took little bird-sized bites. "It's just…" Meredith continued.

Just Stewart.

"And this is why I love her so," Stewart said, grinning, all teeth and crinkly, sparkling, dark eyes.

"Is Dr. Shepherd okay?" Izzie asked, her voice pale and weak. "Dr. Bailey has been keeping us away."

"Everything's fine, Izzie," Meredith answered by rote, relief flooding her over the fact that Dr. Bailey had been intervening behind the scenes. She would have to thank her later when she got a chance. She didn't think Derek would have taken it all that well if one of his students had been witness to him sobbing in the doorway to his room that morning.

"May I see?" Izzie said, pointing to Meredith's hand.

Meredith held out her hand. "Sure, Izzie."

Izzie stared at the ring for the longest time, tilting Meredith's palm from side to side, shifting the diamond in the light. "It's so beautiful," Izzie said. "I never… You're getting married, Meredith. Everyone is. George is married. I was… Everyone is getting married." Except me. The words were clearly stuck there in the mire, not said, but obvious all the same.

"Well, I—" Meredith stuttered, at a loss as the pieces started falling into place. Denny. Denny had proposed under similar circumstances. Sick. Still in dangerous territory. And then he'd died.

Derek might die.

"Tell me the story," Izzie blurted as she wiped her eyes.

Stewart leaned forward, cradling his pointy chin against the hammock of his interlocked fingers. He rested his elbows on the table, and he grinned. "Yes, Meredith, tell us the story."

"I proposed to him before his surgery," Meredith said. "The whole hospital knows the story."

Izzie shook her head. "I'd believe it if you didn't have the ring. There's nothing impulsive about buying a ring like that. I know what you make. You couldn't afford that. Which means Dr. Shepherd bought it. Which means you both knew about this beforehand."

Stewart nodded. "Yes, it's obvious that your hospital shenanigans were all a cover-up operation for a slightly more sordid tale."

"Shenani-what?" Meredith spluttered. "You're… Not fair. Not fair at all, Stewart."

"Come on, Meredith," Izzie insisted. "Tell me."

Meredith sighed. "Alex, do you care?"

"No," Alex said, shrugging.

"Why can't you be like Alex, Izzie?" Meredith said.

"Because I'm not a heartless jerk?" Izzie said. "And, despite my personal reservations, I was there for you back when he was still the attending you were trying to stop yourself from falling for and failing dismally. And then when he was a McBastard and dumped you for McSatan I was there. I. Er. No offense." She looked at Sarah apologetically.

Sarah snorted. "None taken. I've called him worse."

"You owe me," Izzie continued, turning back to Meredith. She jabbed her spoon into her food and scooted forward. "Let me live vicariously through you again. Besides, Cristina's been a bitch all day, and I need a breather. I need goo. I need romance. I need little birdies and happily-ever-afters, and I need to get them from you, apparently, because I keep getting **freaking** screwed. So just…" She sighed as she fell down off her tantrum and shoved a heaping pile of yogurt from her spoon into her mouth. "Please?" she said, her voice wet and muffled around her mouthful. She swallowed, unblinking.

"Why's Cristina being a bitch?" Meredith asked.

"I don't know," Izzie snapped, her voice dripping with affronted hurt, as if caring about Cristina over explaining how Derek had proposed post-coital and naked was a sin. Izzie jammed another spoonful of yogurt into her mouth. "All she does is run laps around the hospital, beating up on nurses and doctors who even mention the word McDreamy. It's like she's got nothing better to do."

Meredith's breath stopped for a moment as panic kidney-punched her. She clutched at the table. "She said nobody was mentioning Derek."

"They call Derek McDreamy?" Sarah said. She giggled. "Oh, that's cute. I bet he hates that."

"He does," Meredith snapped. "And it's worse right now because he thinks he's supposed to be perfect even when he's just nearly died for the second time in two weeks, and he can barely walk. It's a stupid nickname. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I wish Cristina had never come up with it. He's a freaking person. Not a superhero. And I… I… I… Izzie, she said nobody was mentioning it. She swore to me."

Silence stretched as everyone stared at her.

"Well, they're not, now, Mere," Izzie said after a long, wide-eyed pause, a perplexed look overwhelming her hurt expression. "At least not loudly enough to attract Godzilla."

Meredith pushed her chair back as panting, stabbing breaths overwhelmed her. She'd been gone a long time, and people were apparently talking despite what she'd told Derek. And he wouldn't… No. He wouldn't deal well if he heard about any of it. He wouldn't…

"I have to go back," she said. "I have to go back upstairs. It's been too long. I need to…"

"Honey," Sarah said. "Sit. What's wrong?"

Meredith's legs felt weak and wobbly. She swallowed, trying desperately not to think about the dead, spaced, broken look that had hovered in his eyes. The look she'd seen that morning when she'd wrestled him into the bathroom for the shower. The tiredness that she'd been denying came back, crushing her, making her wilt, and a headache roared between her ears. She breathed, but it came out as an almost, sort-of sob.

Stewart stood, and somewhere in the blur, she felt his warm hands helping gravity ease her back into the chair.

_I can't do it. I'm so tired. I feel so bad. I can't. Please. I just can't._

"I can't," she muttered as Derek's words infected her. She pushed up, trying to stand, but Stewart held her down with barely any effort. "I can't leave him alone," she continued. "I need to go back. I said I would be there. You didn't see him this morning. I need…"

"You need to eat, Mere," Sarah insisted, gesturing at the pita Meredith had sampled only two bites of. The chicken had cooled, and no steam curled up into the air. The lettuce had begun to settle, like it had given up. Given up on the pita thing and had surrendered to being a pile of rotting, uneaten junk, ready for the trash heap. Bits of dressing dribbled out the side like the toothpicks that held it together had mortally wounded it.

"Finish eating," Sarah said. "Tell us about the proposal."

"But he's alone," Meredith replied, blinking with disbelief. She was assigning her state of mind to a freaking pita. She was…

She was going insane.

That was it.

It was the exhaustion. Had to be.

Sarah shook her head. "Mom's with him."

"But…" Meredith protested, but it was more an obligatory exhalation than anything else.

"He'll be fine," Sarah said, the certainty making her words a veritable wall.

"You haven't even talked to him yet," Meredith said, something inside of her still kicking and screaming and wailing, demanding that she return to Derek's room right that instant. "He was sleeping when you got here. You don't know."

Sarah shrugged and gave her a small smile. "He's my brother, Meredith. My big brother. I've known him my entire life. I know him. He's Derek. And you have a ring on your finger. If the former wasn't enough to make him stick around, the latter will be. Plus, I looked at his chart and had a word with Dr. Weller. There's nothing wrong, Meredith. Nothing. He's tired, but he's supposed to be after that much anesthesia."

Alex bit into his sandwich, chewing noisily. "I doubt he'll feel perfect if he finds out you think you need to baby-sit him," he said as he polished off a few swallows. "Why don't you just castrate him?"

"Alex!" Izzie snapped.

"What?" he said, shrugging. "I'm just saying."

Izzie rolled her eyes and turned to Meredith. "So," she prodded weakly. "The proposal?"

The table creaked as Stewart sat back down.

Meredith sat there, biting her lip, feeling like the floor was pulling her innards out into a void below her feet. That wasn't what she was doing. Was it? He'd said he wanted her there. He was afraid. He… She wrung her hands together, eyes stinging. No. He'd said thank you. A couple times. More than a couple. And he'd seemed better with her there. And she… She leaned forward, pinching her nose between her fingers, sighing so roughly it burned. She sucked at the supporting thing and the sick thing and the family thing and the whole lot of it. She didn't know. She'd never done this. She…

"Hey," Sarah said. "Meredith, honey, breathe."

"I'm such a freak," Meredith whispered. "I'm a dark and twisty freak."

"Way to go, Alex," Izzie snarled.

"What?" he said.

"Meredith," Stewart said, leaning forward. "He wants you here. It's obvious. Don't worry. He hates being here, he hates being weak and tired and sick, but he doesn't hate having his loved ones around. And if feeling like that emasculates a man, well I guess I'm as girly as they come. Just call me Stewarina."

Sarah looked at Stewart and mouthed something. Thank you, maybe. Meredith wiped her face as they shared a deep, understanding look. Stewart had said it like he wasn't guessing. Like he knew. Innately.

Alex looked down at his plate. "Sorry, man," he said to Stewart. Not to Meredith. Which seemed odd. But…

"So, proposal?" Izzie said.

Meredith took a small bite of pita. It was lukewarm and slippery with dressing saturation, but it still tasted good despite the lack of zesty crunch. "Well I… We…"

"It's okay, Mere," Sarah insisted. "Tell us."

"You'll just laugh at me," Meredith said, looking at Izzie. "At us. You always make light."

Izzie sighed. "Meredith…"

"You were joking about Vegas," Meredith said. "About annulments. And his hair."

"Oh, Mere," Izzie said. "I didn't mean it that way…"

"Please, don't joke about him," Meredith said, unashamed as she reduced herself to begging. "If you visit him," she said, aware that Dr. Bailey couldn't be there all the time and that her friends were all nosier than freaking horses. Mutant horses, with noses longer than… horse noses. "When I take him home." She paused to breathe. When she took him home, the bandages would be off. He'd be stuck living with people he didn't want to see him as weak or something lesser. "Especially when I take him home," she continued. "Please. He's Derek. He thinks he needs to be perfect. The McDreamy crap goes straight to his head. I had to convince him to get a lifesaving operation because he didn't want to be vulnerable in front of the people who spend hours debating what mousse he uses to get the perfect curl."

"I'm sorry, Mere," Izzie said. She turned to Alex and stared. When he didn't look up from his plate, she elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

"What?" he said. "I don't make fun of him."

"You're the one who started the Vegas thing!" Izzie said.

"That wasn't making fun," Alex replied. "I was serious. They have more sex than I do."

Izzie smiled. "They're very noisy," she explained to Sarah and Stewart.

Sarah and Stewart exchanged a twinkling, mischievous look. "We know," they replied in unison.

"Tell us, Mere," Sarah said, turning to Meredith. "You can't really shock us at this point. And we won't make fun."

Meredith sighed as everyone but Alex gave her stares that peeled away so many layers of herself that she felt naked. She cleared her throat and blinked. Anything. Talking about anything had to feel better than sitting here wishing she could be upstairs, reassuring herself that Derek was fine. Wishing she could purge the creeping, moldy, ugly, twisting tiredness that wouldn't leave her alone.

"It was on Thursday," she began. "Right after you told me he was going to propose, Stu."

Stewart puffed up like a peacock. "Told you so!"

She smiled. "Yeah. We had a talk. One that we needed. Really, really needed. There was so much stuff. So many broken things. The ferry. The ferry broke so many things. Derek was… messed up from that. So was I. And… One thing led to another. We sort of christened one of the on-call rooms at Sharon Hospital."

"A semi-public place?" Alex said. "Damn. Go Shepherd. Did you break the bed there, too?"

"No!" Meredith hissed.

"Right."

"We didn't! And we didn't break the bed at home, either. I don't know why you're going on about that. The headboard was a little loose, but, all-in-all, fine. Really. I think you're just mad because Derek was too embarrassed to explain to you how to make women scream."

Everyone stared at her.

"I mean. Um." She coughed. "The headboard is fine," she insisted.

"Go on, Mere," Izzie said.

Meredith forced herself back to the proposal, schooling herself with deep, cleansing, long sighs. They hadn't broken the bed, no, but the sex had been good. Very good. And they'd both been slain with the finishing of it. "He sort of just… Blurted it out. Or whispered, really. Since we were, you know, done. Sort of doing the exhausted, basking thing. Marry me, he said. Just like that."

Meredith's breaths slowed as she thought of it, and a ghost of a smile curled her lips. They'd been in their own world. Removed from Sharon Hospital and concussions and badness. He'd looked into her eyes, and she'd been beyond naked. There had been no part of her that he hadn't laid bare before him. No piece of her soul. The moment had stretched. They'd breathed against each other, soft and hot and living, heartbeat to heartbeat. He'd stared. Stared at her like she was his deliverance, and she'd never doubt again that she really had saved him from his own kind of drowning when they'd met.

Izzie sighed, her eyes glazing over with a dreamy look. "That's so romantic!"

"No wonder you needed a redo," Alex said.

"Oh, shut up, Alex," Izzie snapped. "Proposing then… It's so intimate. There's no crowd, no restaurant staring you down, no audience driving the answer. You're both so vulnerable, and you've just reaffirmed how much you love each other. And that makes it just…"

"That sort of thing doesn't have to reaffirm anything, Izzie. It can just be to scratch an itch. You should know."

"Shut up, Alex," Izzie hissed. "So, did you say yes?"

"No," Meredith said. "I put my clothes on and ran."

"And?" Stewart said.

"He chased me." Stewart laughed. "In clothes," she clarified. "He chased me in clothes."

"And?" Sarah prodded.

"Then I said yes," she said. "He's very persistent. He's… I should go back."

"No, Mere," Sarah said. "Sit and talk. Finish your food."

Meredith sighed and picked up the pita, taking another few bites. "I could do without the sister thing, you know," she grumbled.

Sarah laughed. "That's what makes it the sister thing."

"Is this a private party, or can I join?" Everyone looked up. Mark stood there with a tray that seemed like overkill for his lone apple. It was as if he'd purchased food just to have an excuse. Meredith hadn't even seen him approach. He was in his street clothes, some faded jeans and a shirt that'd seen better days. Dark circles hugged his eyes. And he slouched far more than the size of his briefcase indicated he should be slouching.

"Sloane," Alex said flatly.

Mark stared for a moment as if deciding what would be appropriate. "Karev," he said, his eyes narrowing with all sorts of dark, churning emotions before he turned to Stewart and washed every hint of it away with a blink. "Hey, man," he said.

"Mark," Stewart said.

"Heard you won this year," Mark said as he sat down with his tray.

"Yeah," Stewart replied, a happy smile melting him. "Meredith is a feisty little jail guard. Kept everyone in line." But then the smile disappeared, and he and Sarah both shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, Alex and I should go," Izzie said. "Because we're scheduled to do… Stuff."

"What?" Alex said.

"You know. The rounds. With Dr. Bailey."

"But we're off in—"

"Alex," Izzie hissed.

"Right," he said. "Okay."

They departed quickly, Izzie jerking on the sleeve of Alex's scrubs. Meredith shook her head as she took another bite of soggy pita. The air between the table occupants could have snapped apart and shattered it was so thick with unspoken things. Sarah looked at her hands, a small frown pursing her gorgeous features into a guilt-ridden mess.

"Look, guys, I'm trying," Mark said, cutting into the strange tension. "I just… I would have picked Derek over me, too. You don't have to act like... I get it. It's okay. You don't have to act like I'm going to go postal on you and scream about it."

"Oh, Mark," Sarah said, puffing a huge, heaving sigh that sent her loose bangs flying. Her eyes watered. "You did a stupid thing, but we love you."

"I'm trying," Mark replied, shrugging. "To fix it. I'm trying." He turned to Meredith. "He loves you."

"Yes," Meredith said.

Silence mushroomed in the space between them like the remnants of some sort of explosion. Mark took a bite of his apple and stared at her, unblinking as his jaw worked. Crunch. Crunch. Munch. He drew his fingers down over the light fuzz of his beard in a ponderous motion. He swallowed thickly and sucked in a breath like it was the last bit of air he'd ever receive.

"Never Addison," he added. "Not like I-- Just you."

Meredith stared. "He used to love her. He's told me."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "He told you how he felt about Addison?"

"It was over a decade of his life, Mark," she said. "It's part of what made him who he is now. We've talked about it. It's not like she's taboo or something."

"He told you about the lightning stuff?"

"The what?" she said.

Mark shrugged. "You're his lightning. Addison wasn't even close."

"Okay," Meredith said, frowning, unsure about what Mark was fishing for.

Sarah stood. "Mom, over here!" she said, waving at Derek's mother, who stood, scanning the tables for familiar faces. When she saw Sarah waving, her curious look melted into a warm smile, and she approached.

"Derek's asleep again," Ellen said as she pulled up a chair.

"You left…" Meredith whispered.

"Yes, it's getting late," Ellen said. "Mark, dear, are you ready to leave, or?"

Mark, peeled from his staring, blinked and looked up. "Yeah," he said gruffly. "We should round everyone up."

Stewart stood. "Everyone is here."

"I have to go back," Meredith said. "Ask the admitting nurse to page Izzie for you. She can let you into the house and give you the spare key."

"Meredith…" Stewart said.

"I have to go," she said as the rushing panic, the panic she'd let die in the midst of repeated soothing and prods to chat, to talk about the first proposal, began to stab again. He'd been left all alone. "I've been down here too long, and I have to… He's alone."

She turned and bolted, only to be thwarted by the damned elevator. It was stuck up on six. And then it stopped at five for what seemed like a block of time competing for election as an eon. She turned to take the stairs, only to run into a familiar, thin, wiry but towering frame of legs and arms and just a little bit of torso. Giraffe.

"Aside from the fact that my hair is now the fairest in all the clan," Stewart said as he reached out to steady her before she fell on her ass. "Derek seems to be doing okay."

"I know," she said as she brushed herself off.

"Really?" he said.

She loosed an exasperated sigh. "You just agreed with me."

"I meant you, Meredith," Stewart said. "You don't seem to know."

"Derek's fine," she said, even as something in the back of her mind squealed at her. Wrong, wrong, wrong. "I'm fine. We're all fine!"

"I sense a but," Stewart said. "And not the mesmerizing kind attached to women."

_I mean I can't. I just… Please. Please, I can't._

The elevator dinged, finally greeting the main floor, but she ignored it as a flourish of the nightshift hospital staff, doctors, nurses, orderlies, custodial folks, others, scrambled into the cavernous space, renewing the emptiness around her and Stewart. The doors trundled shut. She sniffled, trying not to think of Derek as she'd helped him into the bathroom, practically bowing under his weight. The weight he'd been too tired and too broken to help her with. And she tried not to think of Derek on her living room floor, twitching, blue. Dead.

It didn't work.

"What if he dies?" she blurted. "What if there's a complication, and there's a moment where he has to decide if he wants to live or not, and he doesn't. What if he doesn't want it?"

Stewart sighed. "Meredith…"

"No," she said. "You can't tell me it's stupid. I drowned. I've been dead. I know."

"Pardon?"

She blinked as she realized what she'd said. She didn't want Derek's family to know how screwed up she'd been. How stupid she'd been. She didn't want them to know, and yet, this was the second time she'd gotten herself into a verbal tangle with Stewart about it. Stewart. Stewart, unassuming, there, but not in an oppressive way, not in a way that smothered who she was or how she felt. He'd let her whine about her family and tell him how poisonous and undeserving she was. He'd paced with her in his station wagon and bought her liquor in his pajamas. He'd given her tequila and let her make her own choice about whether she would drink it. And he was…

Stewart.

Gangly, giraffey Stewart, who always seemed to disarm her with his stupid smiles and his sarcastic comments, who always seemed to understand her whether he liked it or not. He was like her bridge. Screwed up, family-fearing Meredith. Stewart. Shepherd family in a Christmas-loving, Thanksgiving-gathering, happy, boisterous, supportive heap.

A decision snapped into place. She sighed as tired exhaustion wept from her pores like tears of sweat. She wanted to lie down and let everything go away for a while. She did. She was tired, but she couldn't sleep. She was worried, and heartsick, and wishing she could be somehow better. Better for Derek. Better than the wispy, sniffly, shivery thing she'd devolved into as the hours had dragged on and proven her newfound not-running strength was misguided, wishful thinking. She wasn't strong at all.

"The ferryboat crash," she said, sniffling. "It was all over the news. We were onsite trying to help triage the accident victims. A patient knocked me into the water, and I drowned. I was dead, Stewart. Derek pulled me out of the water, but I was dead. Freaking dead. Meredith is a blueberry popsicle dead. He said I matched my scrubs. That I was like ice. And then he had to wait three hours while they tried everything in the book before they managed to revive me."

She stared at Stewart, but his face didn't betray any particular emotion or judgment. She took the opportunity to pull them away from the elevators, where a crowd was gathering again for the next trip up. She and Stewart sat down in the waiting area, facing each other. She felt Lilliputian to his titan as he folded over his knees, resting his face against his hands and his elbows on his kneecaps. Even slouched, he towered.

"So," he said, hesitant as he pieced things together. "When you told me last week that he saved you, you sort of meant literally."

"Yes," she said. "I was dead. I had a moment in the water. It was cold. And I was sad. And I thought, why bother? Just a moment. And it killed me. What if Derek has one of those moments?"

She eyed the entrance to the hospital. People walked in and out, even at the late hour. Shuffling. Moving. Like ants in the scuffle. The air outside the windows was dark and wet, and the pavement glittered against the streetlights. But it wasn't raining. A car rolled up to let a man out, and the paint wasn't wet. The air in front of the streetlight near the entrance didn't shiver with small slivers of drizzle. Nobody walking in or out had umbrellas unfurled or raincoats donned.

"Meredith, please don't take this the wrong way," Stewart said, drawing her gaze back inside. "I'm sure it violates the sympathetic girl talk code, which, by the way, I am none too happy about being continually dragged into with you, but you compel me for some strange reason." He paused and schooled his expression. "You're being ridiculous."

She sighed. "I know! I know I'm being ridiculous."

She was a ridiculous, exhausted, death-fearing freak. She'd already come to the conclusion hours ago. She'd also come to the conclusion that there wasn't a blessed thing she could do about it except wait until she got Derek safely home.

"Exactly," Stewart said. "You think you're being ridiculous. Not that the fear itself is ridiculous."

"What?"

"Meredith," he said. "Do you know what I do for a living?"

She blinked. It'd never come up. She'd never asked. "N—no," she stuttered. "I never really…" She sighed. "Great. I'm so bad at the family thing, I just—"

Crap.

Guilt overwhelmed her when she realized she had absolutely no idea. None. And she'd never asked. Never thought about asking. Never considered it. Everything had been about her and how she couldn't do the family thing. She'd wasted a lot of time hiding behind Derek, not necessarily physically, but a lot of what she'd talked about had had to do specifically with him. Aunt Meredith. Aunt implied she was someone's sister.

Crap, crap, crap.

_Kathy works too much. She's bright and shiny until she's not. And then she's really, really not. _She'd let Kathy provide endless counsel, never once asking Kathy if Kathy was okay. If Kathy cared that Derek couldn't remember a freaking year of his life.

And then there was Sarah. Who seemed friendly enough, but she was obviously not nearly the hotshot Derek was. Chief Webber hadn't come barreling in, trying to woo her the second she'd stepped over the hospital's threshold. She was younger than Derek. How much younger? Meredith hadn't asked. Maybe Sarah hadn't had a chance to really make her mark yet. Was she an attending? Or just a resident?

And Natalie. Meredith had barely spoken to Natalie. She'd looked so much like Derek, Meredith had found it disconcerting enough during the initial few days that a divide had sort of settled between them, and the lack of familiarity had stuck until Meredith's departure.

And Nancy. She was going through her own personal hell right then. Though, despite their shakily better terms, Meredith didn't think she could ever offer the woman much comfort. Meredith was a reminder. But Nancy had to talk with the other women. Didn't she? Did they have conference calls to express their woes? Tea parties? Girls' nights out? What did… How did that work?

And then there were the men.

John. What did John do? And Chris… Chris, she'd speculated, was in the military. But she hadn't asked. And Rob. Why had Rob left Nancy? Surely, there'd been a reason. A precursor. And what did he do with his life? Why did he drive that little sports car? She wondered what else she'd missed, and suddenly found herself wondering when the next family thing was.

Because she wanted to try again.

"I'm a stay-at-home dad," he said, interrupting the downward spiral of her thoughts.

"You?" she blurted. "But you're…"

He grinned, easing further into a slouch. "Entirely too manly? Thank you for the compliment," he said. She couldn't help but snort as he pulled back and sprawled his long arms over the backs of the chairs to his left and right like some sort of triumphant cowboy. "I played in the NBA before I had to retire because I wrecked my knee. The Knicks. I met Sarah at a game Mark dragged her to because Derek was busy. They sat right behind the bench, and she caught my eye." He smiled as he lost himself in the memory.

"Alex," Meredith said as understanding dawned. "Holy crap! I thought… You…"

"Yep," he replied. "You have the privilege of being almost legally related to your very own has-been! I had surgery to fix the knee, and I'm mostly okay for things like capture the flag, but there was a while there where I couldn't walk without assistance, and then crutches, and then a cane."

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Derek is a doer. Derek is cocky. He will get depressed from time to time. But he'll get over it. Just because he's down doesn't mean he wants to die."

"You didn't see the way he was acting earlier."

"I know firsthand the way he was acting earlier. He's drugged. Give him a week before you label him with chronic anything, let alone a death wish."

"It doesn't have to be chronic," she said. "It just takes a second."

He regarded her silently for a moment. He gripped the backs of the chairs, and a sigh rolled from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers as he re-slouched. "Meredith, are you familiar with the concept of metal fatigue?"

She frowned. "Metal breaks when it's bent too much."

He nodded. "Take my knee, for instance," he said. His right hand left the back of the chair, and he grasped his kneecap, flexing his fingers as he squeezed. She wondered if he wore a brace under his pants or something. If he had a prescription for pain. If he'd had a hard time with the capture the flag, but did it anyway because it was a Shepherd family thing, and he enjoyed it. She'd never paid attention. She'd never…

"Do you think that one day I was running down the court, and it just snapped for no good reason?" he asked.

She blinked, torn from her thoughts. "Uh."

"Months, Meredith," he said. "I had months of aches and pains before it finally went. I knew it was coming even if I didn't want to admit it."

"I don't…"

"How many months or years of aches and pains did you have before you had your moment?"

"But I…"

"And how long has Derek been having troubles?"

"But…"

"That's all I've got," he said, smiling. "You don't have to stammer anymore."

"But."

"I know," he said. "I've ruined some quality moping, haven't I? My work here is done!" he said as he slapped his knees and stood. "Sarah is probably wondering whether I fell into one of the urinals. I should get back. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay," she replied, her voice weak and small as she watched his lanky, departing figure, but as she had time to settle in and think about it more, the fear he'd sucker-punched out of her system came creeping back like a coiling, ugly weed.

Derek had been depressed for less than two days from this surgery, sure. And Stewart was right. Just that alone… It would be really kind of silly to worry about. She knew the statistics about post-surgery depression.

But the week and a half before the craniotomy hadn't been all that pleasant, either. And he'd been really off since she'd drowned. Really, really off. Dark and twisty in his own, internalizing, suffering way. He thought things over and over and over until he was dizzy with it, until he'd looked at every possible angle forty times or more, and when it was a dark thing he pondered, he just got darker, darker, and darker still as the badness coiled.

That was what he'd done with her drowning. He'd hovered. Slept poorly. Moped. Lost out on a job he'd thought he wanted. And he'd finally ended up needing to go home to his family for some relief, which he hadn't gotten. He'd gotten his head cracked against a steering wheel for his trouble, and he'd had to deal with the drowning thing all over again. He'd had to deal with everything, Addison, Mark, everything, all over again in a fraction of the time. He'd been broken with anxiety and upset and twisty disquiet.

He'd been broken.

And then he'd had this stupid surgery, which had terrified him, dehumanized him, and left him weeping and tired, and what was left of his walls had come crashing down. Maybe he hadn't been a chronic sufferer like she had been with her stupid not-family and her stupid, disastrous life. Maybe his dead gaze from the morning, his hopeless surrender, maybe they hadn't been around long enough to strip him of everything that he felt he wanted to live for. But a month and a half was a long time to get pounded into submission. What if that was enough time for him to have a moment?

On second glance, she'd regretted her decision to stop flailing and kicking her limbs when she'd hit the freezing water. On second glance. But the first glance was what had mattered when it came down to it. And Derek, on first glance, might think about his fiancé swan diving into the Puget Sound, might think about Mark's backstabbing, might look at the door to his room and wonder if walking there was worth the exhaustion. And that might be enough. Enough that he wouldn't get that second glance. All it took was infection, or post-op pneumonia, or cerebral edema, and he'd be in trouble.

Big trouble.

She doubted Stewart had taken any of the crap that had happened prior to the surgery into consideration with his metal fatigue analogy. Derek? Derek was pretty freaking fatigued when it came down to it. When it came down to that first glance.

A pang jabbed her. She stared at the elevator as she stood up. It'd gone back up to floor five and hovered there. She opted for the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, almost tripping more than once. But she needed to get to him. Needed to reassure herself that he was okay. It was a biting, hurting sort of need that nearly had her sobbing by the time she'd reached his floor and wound her way through the hallways to his door.

When she rushed through the door and plowed to a halt, her heart jackhammered for several pulses and then began a gasping, slow decline to normal again. Derek was still sitting up, but his eyes were shut. His head had tilted to the side toward the door, as if he'd been watching for something or someone and had drifted off. His lips hung slightly parted, relaxed. The soft, deep, rasping sound of his breathing filled the lull between the beeps of his heart monitor. He slept. Peaceful. Not scared, or disturbed, or anything at all. Removed from the world.

She walked over to the bed. "I'm back," she whispered, but he didn't budge. "Sorry I took so long." For a moment, she just stared at him. His face was slack, expressionless. If he was dreaming, it didn't show. She blinked, watching. Watching for the longest time.

Sighing, she grabbed her pile of books and highlighters from the bedside table and eased up onto the bed next to him, curling into him, into the crook of his shoulder. She sat the book between them, resting the end of spine between their hips and the front and back against their thighs. Test questions. She couldn't just read right then. She needed interactive. She needed something that would make her focus, something that wouldn't let her space out, wouldn't let her stop thinking. Not as easily, anyway.

Tiredness slogged through her brain. Crying that refused to happen hurt her eyes. She hadn't slept. She hadn't slept more than an hour or two in the last forty some hours or so. She needed sleep. But she couldn't bring herself to close her eyes for more than a second.

When her eyes were open, Derek was warm and breathing. His heart throbbed against the wall of his chest, and the sounds of sleep, the rustle of air and the vague rush of blood underneath his skin, were a soothing, relaxing thrum of life against her mental disquiet. And, physically, he was so much better. He'd been looking better every time he woke up. When she closed her eyes, though, he wasn't better at all. He was seizing and dying and giving up. One nightmare had been enough. Sleeping was… Not happening.

She sighed and stared at the first question, trying not to let her mind wander as she absorbed the words. She scribbled notes down onto the sheet of paper, flipping back and forth, trying to decide. Somewhere between answering question one and the moment when she'd mustered enough energy to read question two, he woke.

It wasn't an abrupt sort of awakening. It was the kind that happened on a weekend, when the alarm hadn't gone off, the sun beat through the windows, and wakefulness sort of slipped in through the cracks of dreams. His slow, even breathing shortened just enough to tell her he was with her.

"Hey," she whispered as she moved to question three.

He muttered a half-asleep, grunty syllable. His head shifted minutely to rest against hers. The warmth of his cheek spread into her left temple like a bath of sunlight. His fingers twitched, he wrapped the arm she'd curled up under, the arm with the intravenous line and the finger clip, more tightly against her hip, and then he went quiet. He wasn't sleeping. He wasn't talking either, but the silence that hummed between them wasn't the sort that begged for filling. It had a warm quality to it. An I'm-just-enjoying-you-here quality.

"Everyone went home for the night," she whispered. Question four. "We're alone again."

He seemed to be content just sitting there, so she didn't press it when he didn't speak. Question five was hard. She paused on it for what seemed like an eternity before the answer came to her, and she was able to move on. This was, ironically, a section on traumatic brain injury. She'd flipped to it quite by accident, but she needed to cover it sometime, and… She doubted it would get any easier. At least, not in the nearish, before-the-test future. A pang ripped through the back of her throat when she read the question on steps to relieve intracranial pressure. That could have easily been Derek. Derek needing the shunt or a barbiturate coma or the decompressive craniectomy. Fatality percentages of epidural hematomas brought her to a shaky halt.

"That one is A," Derek whispered.

Meredith stilled. "What?"

He shifted and raised a finger to point at question five. She'd been way past that, on to question nine, but it didn't matter. The pad of his index finger lightly brushed the page, pawing at it, almost as if he were trying desperately to keep his place. "The answer is A, not B. Increased urination after a traumatic brain injury can indicate…" His voice trailed away for a moment before whatever struggle he was fighting yielded him with the remainder of his sentence, "A hormonal imbalance."

She stared at the page. B had been anxiety. It was the only symptom on the list she had direct experience with. But when he said it, reasoning she'd missed clicked into place. Anxiety was more about increased urge, not increased output. "Deficient ADH output?" she said.

"Right," he replied after a pause. "And what causes it?"

"That could mean an injury to the hypothalamus," she said excitedly as some of the stuff she'd studied earlier in the day started shaking loose from the mental jumble. It'd just needed a nudge. "Or the connection between the hypothalamus and the pituitary. Or to just the pituitary."

"Yes," he said. "What's deficient ADH production called?"

"Cranial diabetes insipidus?"

"Yeah. Treatment?"

"Non-surgical. Medication can replace the missing hormones."

"Mmm," he replied. It was a low sort of rumble that vibrated against her spine. It was the first time he'd used it in the last two days where it didn't have an "I'm tired" tacked onto the meaning. All it said was yes.

She leaned into his neck and breathed him in, relished the warmth of him. "Thanks," she said. She pointed to question nine. "What about this one? I was waffling…"

He put his hand on the page, breathing softly as he stared at it. His fingers felt along the text, almost as if he were blind, but instead of over the words, he ran them under. It was an odd gesture, because Derek wasn't a finger reader. He rarely touched the pages except to turn them. His progress was slow. He made it to choice A before his hand fell away.

"Read it to me?" he said with a sigh, but if he was disturbed by the fact that he needed her help, he didn't let on. He breathed against her, softly, waiting for her, and she felt almost like they were back at home in bed, just sharing a moment caught in an ebb of activity.

A few weeks before the ferry accident, he'd been up late, his bedside lamp glowing in the relative dimness, reading when she'd come home from her shift. She'd flopped down onto her side of the bed and pulled out her own book, but it'd been one of those nights when the silence had been getting to her. She'd tossed her book onto her pillow and rolled toward him, asking him what he was reading. He'd flashed her the book spine.

"Hemingway," she'd said, making a face as she'd flopped down against his chest and heaved a woeful sigh.

He'd smirked. "For Whom the Bell Tolls is a good read. Way better than Night Pleasures." He'd looked pointedly at her discarded paperback, complete with its half-naked, leather pants-clad, muscular male model painted on the front. "Seriously, Meredith?"

"Seriously," she'd said. "Reading is for escape. How can anything they made me read in high school be an escape?"

He hadn't answered her. Instead, he'd flipped several pages forward to a section where the pages were slightly more ruffled with wear and started to read in the low, reverent, whispery tone he often reserved for her name. He'd sucked her in just with that, and she'd been entranced for a whole chapter while he read and absently rubbed her shoulder with his palm. Hemingway had a sort of simple, primer style that she'd always found distasteful and dry, but when Derek read it, it seemed like every word was a brushstroke in a masterpiece.

"Oh," she'd said lamely when he'd finished.

He'd raised an eyebrow as he'd lain the book on his nightstand. "Well?"

"Well what?" she'd said.

"Now's your chance to convince me on the merits of romantic heroes named Vladimir."

"Seriously? And it's Kyrian, Derek. Jeez."

"Kyrian," he'd said, correcting himself with a smirk. "Pardon me."

She'd picked up the book she'd discarded. "I can't read you this. It's like… It's…"

He'd rolled on top of her, spreading her legs. "Sex?" he'd whispered against her navel as he'd rolled her pants off the curve of her hips like he'd been unwrapping a delicate present and didn't want to rip the paper.

"Um," she'd managed to gasp as he'd run his tongue against her skin like a big, grinning cat, leaving a cool trail of evaporating passion behind. His fingers had curled around her hips, possessive, dragging her toward him just an inch, resettling her, and then he'd started to knead her with his hands.

"Read it to me," he'd growled.

She blinked. Okay, this wasn't quite like that. But. She blinked, trying to force the pelting imagery away. Her eyes stung. She wanted to do that again. She wanted to go home as badly as he did… She hated it at the hospital. She knew if she took him home they very likely would not be having erotic, book-assisted sex, at least not for a few days, not until he got some sustainable energy back, not until his pain was less enough that he didn't need to be stoned all the time to endure it, but there was something about spooning him, reading to him softly while he rested that just tugged at her heart. He would be so much better at home. She would be. She would be so much better at home without all the reminders that he might not be there when she came back if she left him alone.

"Meredith?" he said.

"S--sorry," she said, reaching up quickly to clear away the sudden spread of tears. "What percentage of TBI cases present with damage to the optic nerve? The choices are three, five, eight, and ten."

He thought for a minute, long enough that she thought she might need to repeat the question, and he didn't want to ask. "Five percent," he said. "Roughly." He rubbed her arm.

"Thank you," she whispered, unable to stop the sniffle that brought with it a new spattering of tears. She wiped her face and tried to read the next question, but he reached down and closed the book. Her highlighter warped the pages in the middle. He clenched the edges of the book, leaning forward as he swept it away and put it on the table on the other side of the bed. Out of her reach. He sighed as he leaned back, breathing as though he'd been lifting weights, not a book, which made things burn and start all over again. She couldn't stop herself.

"But I have to study," she protested softly.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, pulling her against him. Her ear lay flat against his chest, and he rested his chin on her head, burying it in her hair. He sighed. "You have to sleep, Mere."

"But…"

"I'll be here," he said. "And I'll be fine." He kissed her softly, rubbing his arm up and down her back, slow and soothing, and she felt her eyelids start to droop, only to snap open again. This was wrong. This was all wrong.

"You need it more, Derek."

"If you don't sleep, I'm not going to sleep either."

"Oh, Derek."

"I'm feeling better," he said. His hand stopped for a moment, stopped soothing her. It was as if he were pausing for a serious self-assessment. "Really. I'm lifting heavy medical volumes. I'm walking across the room. I'm even letting you have my side of the bed."

"This is a small bed," she said. "There aren't really sides."

She fell apart. Finally. It was a stupid thing to fall apart about. The bed not having sides. She wanted to go home. She wanted to take him home. She wanted them to be home, sleeping in their own sheets, away from this place, away from the place that had laid him bare and was doing similar metaphorical work with her. She hated it so much. Except he couldn't leave. He'd nearly died. He'd had his skull drilled open. It was a miracle of very modern medicine that he was even around to chat at all. And it… She was… He…

The torrent of tears, the ones that had refused time and time again to fall all seemed to hit her all at once, more of a hurricane than anything else, and she sobbed. Ugly, sucking sobs that racked her torso, and made her hair stick to her face as the salty wetness dried and replenished and dried and replenished, leaving her skin a hurting, burning wasteland.

"Hey," he whispered in her ear. "It's all right. I'm here."

She clutched at his shirt, selfishly happy her fingers weren't tangling up in lead wires and other things, selfishly happy that all she had to touch was the warm, comforting expanse of his shirt stretched over his chest, which expanded with every soft, living breath. Living. Living.

"I'm so afraid," she said.

"I'm sorry I scared you. I'm so sorry, Meredith."

"It's n-not your fault," she said, inhaling deeply, shakily, trying. Trying to stop. He wasn't supposed to be apologizing. He wasn't supposed to have her wrapped in his arms. That was… That was her job. She was… "It's the freaking deer's fault."

"No, I meant about… After," he said, his embrace tightening. "After I woke up. I should have… Been fine. You were there with me, and that means more to me than anything. But I let… I let the situation own me, and I… You've been starving yourself and not sleeping, and I…" He went silent, and she shifted to look at him. He was staring. Staring off, somewhere. Not visibly upset, not a mess like she was. But he wasn't happy, and she forgot her crying for a moment.

"Derek, no," she said definitively. She kissed him. Their noses bumped, and she was vaguely aware of the nasal cannula breaking what should have been an interlocking gesture of nothing but skin. He tasted perfect, a warm fire blasting away the sudden chill of her fears, and she never wanted it to end. The moment made the room fall away, made everything fall away. She slid her hands over his shoulders and squeezed as he nudged her with his nose. She tilted, and he caressed the sensitive skin under her jaw, twisting, trailing along the line of bone, ending with a wet, needing kiss against her lips. She moaned as he sucked on her lower lip. Her breath was gone. His breath was gone. They panted, dueling for one last piece. When she pulled back, his fingers curled against her in silent protest as he fought to catch his breath. He leaned against her, resting his forehead on hers. His eyelids dipped, and she remembered why she'd kissed him.

Tired. He was tired. He was healing. He wasn't supposed to be doing this. She was supposed to be the support.

"No," she continued, splaying her palms against his chest. "You don't always have to be the rock, Derek. You don't always have to be the one supporting me. You're a person. You get scared. You get sad. And I want to be there for you when it happens, even though it frightens me. I want to… You've always been… and I want to… I want to be there. I want to."

He stared at her, meeting her gaze, so very close. Meeting it with sharp, blue, tired eyes. No haze of drugs kept him from staring into her, delving for the meaning she wasn't saying. A glaze blotted some of it out, yes, but he sort of… broke through it. "You were," he said, kissing her. "You are." He kissed her again. "I love you." He smiled. Truly. Despite everything. In the dim light, his eyes sparkled, and it sent a tremor trough her body, started a deep, twanging, burning sort of need. It elated her and terrified her all at once.

_I want sex._

He'd been happy then, too. A shiver sent claws scraping down her spine, made her twitch in his grasp. His grip tightened, and he frowned. "Mere?" he whispered, soft, concerned, and he was doing it again.

He was…

He was trying to be perfect. For her. For everyone. He wasn't supposed to need to do that right then. She was supposed to be… She was supposed to be enough.

Her.

And she wasn't.

Because she was falling apart. Because she was being ridiculous.

"No, no, I mean," she said as the tears started to leak again. "I want to be there. And I can't. I can't be there if you're dead, and I'm…"

He sighed. "Mere, I'm fine," he assured her. "I'm not dead. I'm tired, and I feel awful, but I'm not dead. I'm here, and I'll be fine."

She sniffled as she shook her head. "You don't need this right now. This is all messed up. You're not supposed to be helping me. I'm being crappy at the pylon thing. The supporting. I'm…"

Her voice fell away from her as she started to cry again in earnest. She was. She was awful at this. But he felt so good. Wrapped around her. Whispering. She'd missed him. Missed him being Derek like this. He tightened his arms around her, and his words soothed her until the torrent stalled to a drizzle and then quiet.

"Mere, when Annie sat down in my lap, do you know what I was thinking?"

"I know you want kids, Derek. I know. I really, really know. I'm going to think—"

"Stop," he said, halting her. "No. Yes, I was thinking about having my own someday, but that's not what I meant. I meant…"

"What?"

"I was happy because she poked me in the rib and didn't care," he said, a light, whuffing laugh dotting his sentence. "You don't need to treat me with kid gloves, Meredith. Even if I'm scared. Even if I'm sad. Even if I'm tired or depressed."

She sighed, leaning against him. "Where do you think I learned it from? You do that to me, Derek. You did that to me when this whole thing was starting. Not telling me about how bad your headache was until I pried it out of you."

"I'm sorry," he said. He kissed her softly. "I know. I'll… I'll try not to, Mere. I'm sick right now. I feel… Tired, and spacey, and I know if I got up right now and tried to get away from here, I'd make it maybe halfway down the hall before I had to sit because I'm so fatigued. But, Mere, knowing you're hurting yourself trying to make me feel better? That's what's making this unbearable."

"Derek, you… You're you. You almost never admit there's something you can't handle. And I told you I would deal with this. I promised I would."

"What I can't handle is you being so upset that you're not sleeping or eating, Mere, promise or not," he insisted.

She lay her ear flat against his chest as she curled into his warmth. The dark blur of the hospital room wavered as his inhalations and exhalations shifted her view with an even rhythm. Up and down. Up and down. He rubbed her back, soft and soothing and perfect and Derek-y. And it felt so nice. The blood rushed under his skin, and she felt almost like she'd put a conch shell to her ear and was listening for the ocean. Where's the heartbeat. There. Thump. Thump. Thump. There it was. Slightly off time with the distant, quiet beeps pulsing from his heart monitor. She ran her index finger up and down over the bump of his pectoral muscle as she listened. The sound of his hand against her back rustled, and the repeated, unending soothing built friction on her skin, making her feel warm and loved and safe.

She sighed, the effort of it making her shudder.

"Mere, the support thing you keep spouting is mutual. It doesn't have to be an either or deal," Derek said. "That much, I know."

She wiped her hands at her face. Her skin was sticky, probably blotched and unattractive. But dry. It'd dried. The gross, ugly crying had dried. He'd… He was Derek. And he had the unique ability to make everything seem fine again. The unique ability to exorcise the most horrific horrors, the saddest grief, and the most painful hurting. She wanted that sort of comforting. She wanted that desperately, selfishly even. He had to be tired. He had to be struggling. He had to be… But he was insisting. He was being all Derek-y and stubborn. And she wanted to be able to close her eyes again. She wasn't going to make it until they took him home. Not if the awful, twisting feelings in her gut after just the last forty odd hours were any indication.

"I had a nightmare," she confessed.

"Okay," he said, cautious, as if he expected one wrong word to send her running away from him and any potential relief he thought he could give her. "Of what?"

"You," she said. "We were at home. And you wanted to have sex. And we started, but then you stopped and you… You had a seizure Derek. A full tonic-clonic seizure. And I had to watch it. You turned blue. And then you died. You just… I don't want you to die. Please, please don't die, Derek."

"Shhh," he whispered as she started to cry again, but it wasn't like before. It wasn't the ugly, racking tears that made her torso shake. It was quiet, subtle suffering. The kind that stole in on a moment of weakness and hung around like a parasite, unwilling to abate. The kind that came with the worst kind of pain and never went away entirely. Grieving for a loved one. Even years later, it smuggled itself along, quiet, until a stupid reminder would set it off again. A favorite cup. A smell. A picture.

"You were so depressed this morning," she whispered. "I thought… What if you have a complication? What if your heart stops, or you stop breathing, and you have a second to choose, but you're so depressed you just decide, what's the point? That's why I drowned, Derek. I don't want you to drown."

"Oh, Mere," he said with a low, shuddering sigh. "Is that… Mere, I was embarrassed, and frustrated, and tired, and sure, I wanted to be far, far away, but dead? No. You're marrying me, Meredith. That trumps anything as far as I'm concerned."

"But you asked for morphine," she said. "And when we woke you up to move you, you barely said a word. And I had to drag you into the bathroom. And you were crying."

"Mere, serious exertion like that causes headaches," he replied. "I was in pain. A lot of pain. Asking for morphine had nothing to do with me wanting to shut the world out permanently."

"But you don't like morphine. You were begging them to take you off it."

He rubbed her back. "Mere, I don't like morphine, no. If my choice is a little headache or being tripped up on morphine, I'll pick the headache. But I don't like solid pain either. And that was as bad as it was Monday night. Worse."

"But the crying. And the dead staring. And… You barely…"

"Stoned," he said, giving her a wry, weak smile. "I was really, really stoned. Stoned, exhausted, and embarrassed. I don't like that I can't do things anymore. It embarrasses me, and it makes me feel like a burden. It doesn't mean I want to die, Meredith. It means I want to be able to do things again."

"You're not a burden, Derek," she said.

He grinned as he ran his fingers under her jaw line, settled to grip her chin, and then he leaned in to kiss her. "Neither are you, Mere. Ever."

"What if you develop epilepsy?" she said. "Will you still want to live then?"

"Yes," he said, quick, sure, definitive. Despite everything, he hadn't had to think about it, consider, or wonder, and that heartened her more than she'd expected it to.

"But you wouldn't be able to be a surgeon anymore," she said. "You could wish all you want to do it again, but nobody would let you cut when you could have a seizure any minute."

"Meredith, being a surgeon…" He shrugged. "It means a lot to me. It does. I won't lie. Losing the career I've spent my life building would be painful. But…"

"But?" she prodded.

"I could go into teaching. I'm one of the top neurosurgeons in the country. Any university with a medical program would kill to have me doing lectures. I could go strictly into research. I could… I don't know. There are options."

He'd really thought about this. She'd thought he'd been too scared to think coherently about his future if things went wrong. Too scared and worried and other things. But he'd thought about it. He'd thought rationally about the possibility of his career ending. Permanently.

She felt guilty for missing it. How had she missed that? She'd proposed, more for herself than for him, and she'd told him everything would be okay, refused to let him try and comfort her, but she'd never thought to try and work things out with him, make it really seem like it would be okay, even if things ended up vastly not okay. They hadn't done it. The mutual thing. Discussion. That, in the long run, probably would have been better for them both. Talking. Rationally talking. The comforting thing… She still had some stuff to learn, apparently.

She closed her eyes, trying to imagine him as Derek the professor or Derek the researcher. It didn't fit. It didn't fit at all. But it would keep him in medicine, would keep him in the field, and the essence of the field, the helping… That was what made him the happiest out of all of it. Even if he couldn't directly change anything, couldn't clip off aneurysms, couldn't save someone from damage that would affect his or her entire life, he'd still be saving lives, making them better. And that. That was what he valued most. Right?

Still…

"But you love the cutting," she said.

He nodded. "I love the cutting," he admitted softly.

"How can you be so sure then?"

"I love a lot of things, Meredith," he said. "But I love you the most. I really can't imagine wanting to die in light of that."

She blinked. All at once, the world started making sense again. The cogs clanked, and the wheels turned. Gears shifted. She sighed as beating, unending waves of relief overwhelmed her, splashed against the crags of worry and obliterated them, and she was a smooth shore of glittering sand again. Because he'd finally said something she could digest and believe and hold onto. She'd been there herself. She sighed, listening to the soft sound of his breathing, letting the warmth soak her.

She'd never admitted it. She'd never told him. But, now, it seemed so important. Something that had to be… said. If him telling her had that sort of effect when it was only hypothetical, she couldn't imagine the relief she'd denied him when it'd been real. She couldn't… She clutched his shirt and sighed, a fresh swath of tears cutting her down like a storm of rapiers. But it wasn't grief or… anything really. Just…

Letting go.

"You're why I came back," she murmured into his shirt, breathing in the scent of him, his warmth, everything.

He stilled, and all that remained of him for a long set of moments was his quiet breathing and the solid feel of him against her, living. She rested against him, not opening her eyes, letting him process what she'd said in peace. And she liked it. She liked just… Resting. Resting there.

"If I had a choice," he said, "You'd be the reason, too."

"Really?"

"Yes, really, Meredith," he said. "Though, I'd rather not be in a position to prove it to you. And Meredith?"

"What?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Being here with me. I'm…"

She lifted her head from him to peer at him. His face was wet. He'd been crying. When had he been crying again? She'd missed it. Missed it again. But he didn't look sad. Didn't look… anything bad other than exhausted. He was relieved. Happy to be in love. Happy to be loved. Happy to offer comfort and be comforted. Despite the fact that he was stuck in the bed and she had the ability to run far, far away, everything between them was equal. And that was perfect enough to hurt.

She gave him a watery smile. "I know."

"Sleep, Meredith," he whispered, kissing the top of her head as he gathered her firmly in his embrace. The bed hummed as he lowered them, and he sighed with tired relief as they flattened out. She settled against him. They fit. They really fit. She clutched at his shirt. His hand found hers, and he brushed the ring with his fingertips, caressed her knuckles, and raised her fingers to his lips. He kissed her. She breathed him in as he gently let her hand drop back to his chest. Moving took effort, and he was warm and soft and Derek. Hers. Her fiancé. Her eyes shut, and she couldn't get them to open again, not that she wanted them to. The dark wasn't scary anymore.

"Sleep," he said again. "We both need it."

"Even though I'm on your side of the bed?" she said.

He laughed as he rubbed her back, up and down and up and down. "I'll live," he said, his tone thick with sleep. He shifted, and she felt his chin settling against the pillow over her head. His body relaxed, and the motions of his hand stopped. His breathing evened out. He hovered, not quite sleeping yet, but relaxed, drifting in the space just above it.

Though he'd meant it as a joke, she realized she believed him. Believed him in her head. Believed him in her heart. Innately believed. He was Derek. He was very good at making her believe things. Making her know things that she should have known. He always had been.

_I'm in love with you. I'm in love with you for… ever. I'm a little late. I… I know I'm a little late in telling you that. I… I just… I just want you to take your time. You know? Take all the time you need. Because you have… A choice to make. And when I had a choice to make… I chose wrong._

She couldn't be sure whether he surrendered first or she did. It didn't matter.

They slept.


	44. Chapter 42

**Author's Notes: Sorry this took so long to finish. This part was difficult for me to get done for some reason. This story is definitely winding down, but I do have a lot of loose-ends to wrap up, so it'll be a few parts yet. Thanks so much for the comments :)**

* * *

"So, I sort of told the nurses spring," Meredith said as Derek walked slowly down the corridor, which seemed to stretch out in front of them like land long enough to tilt over the horizon line, endless, white, littered with dangerous obstructions like people and stretchers and patients and stray hospital equipment. In reality, the hall wrapped around the corner in less than the length of a football field. But that didn't matter. Because Derek was walking on his own without support, and the glacial pace coupled with her slight worry that he was going to push himself past his limits and get upset again was a little harrowing. Harrowing enough that she needed to fill the silence with… Something. Anything.

And marriage was on her mind. It had been a lot, lately.

She wheeled the chair along next to him, matching his pace, biting her lip. She'd wanted him to just take a stroll down the hall and back, but he'd insisted that he wanted to go until he couldn't. Hence the chair. His IV drip dangled from the chair pole. He was on his own, nothing really to grab onto to hold himself up, at least nothing particularly stable, and she watched each step with a strange mix of trepidation and elation.

"What?" Derek said as he pushed another slipper-clad foot forward.

His pace was very… off. Like he was lost in space with his thoughts and he'd slowed to ponder infinity. But he wasn't hobbling anymore. And he didn't sound breathless or anything. That was good.

"For us getting married," she said. "I told them spring. I sort of… Well. Spring."

"Oh," he said. His gaze was fixed in front of him, and his lips were set in a firm line of determination. And, for the first time in nearly forty-eight hours, he was completely composed behind his gaze. When he did look at her, his pupils sharpened with clarity, and his eyes had a little of their normal sparkle back.

He wasn't well, but he wasn't stoned. They'd dropped him down from morphine to codeine in the morning, starting to switch him over to pill cocktails and off of intravenous medications when they'd brought in his breakfast. She'd woken up warm and rested in the morning next to him, the scent of him curled around her like a fuzzy blanket, and, though she had been a bit achy from the lack of movement, she'd never felt more perfect listening to him sleep on further into the morning. His family had stopped by in a cluster shortly after breakfast, and everyone, Sarah included, had finally gotten a chance to chat with him. They'd had a cheery powwow before deciding to tour Seattle. They'd opted to drag Mark along as a guide since it was his day off, and had only spent about an hour visiting. Ellen had wanted to stay a little longer, but Derek had insisted they all get moving, that he would be fine.

Derek had ended up sleeping pretty much the entire day away while she'd studied quietly on the couch by the lamp. But then he'd woken up, smiling, looking relatively refreshed, a whole busload less spacey, and wanting to try some walking. Which was…

Terrifying, really. But wonderful all at the same time. It was pretty damned confusing to have such disparate emotions thwacking at each other like pugilists. Yay, he took a step. Eek, he might fall. The crescendo of the yo-yo in her mind grated on her nerves. Yay, he took another step. Eek, he really might fall. And another! Really, really might. And another! Really, really, really might. The longer he walked, the worse the feelings got. And he seemed to be focused enough on the walking thing that the talking thing wasn't going to happen unless she did some verbal prodding.

Talking was a damned fine alternative to the yo-yo, she decided, squeezing her eyes shut as if it would force the tangle in her head out through some quality, salty tears. Except she was, at least fifty percent of the time, overjoyed, which made it awfully hard to cry. She opened her eyes again, discovering suddenly that it was hard not to smile.

Fifty percent was probably an underestimate.

The marriage thing and all…

"Do you mind? That I told them spring?" she said.

"Of course not."

"You don't have a preference?"

He halted and looked at her, smiling brightly. "I just want to marry you, Mere."

"So, spring is okay. With you."

"Yes," he said as the smile devolved into a smirk. "We wouldn't want to make a liar out of you. Would we?"

He started walking again, one step, one step, one step. She rolled after him, gripping the arms of the chair. An intern she recognized from Dr. Emory's group pushed past, overflowing with charts, stumbling, cursing. He sized them up as he passed, but he didn't stop to say anything, and the wayward pile in his hand quickly recaptured his attention.

"So, it's July, now," she said. "We could be married in eight months."

He nodded. "We could."

"Eight months," she mused.

He stopped again, frowning. "You don't sound happy."

"Honestly?" she said, biting her lip.

She'd already figured out so much in such a short time, but at the same time, she didn't know a thing. When she looked at Derek, she saw the man she'd spend her life with. She did. There was no uncertainty anymore. This whole week and a half… Derek wasn't leaving. Derek loved her. She loved him. Immensely. She wasn't leaving. She'd seen him really sick, and all she'd wanted was to take it away. She hadn't wanted to flee and go do something easier. He'd started trusting her again. Completely. Trust for him she hadn't realized she'd been missing had rematerialized as well when he'd fallen for her again in the absence of sex and alcohol.

Hell if she knew what she deserved, but this was a good thing, this was her Queen of England thing. Someone, God, or whatever the heck was building the things around them for the physicists to ponder, had lined this up for her, and, whether said entity had made a booboo or not, she didn't care anymore. Being happy was freaking nice. And she was damned well going to grab on and never let go.

But, despite being smacked with clarity over and over and over again, she still felt like a big pile of clueless in the grand scheme of things. She didn't know what name she'd pick, or where they'd live after, or when it would happen, or what kind of wedding it would be, or what she'd wear, or anything, really. The mechanics of the situation were a freaking mystery, and that was scary in its own right.

"I can't decide whether it's going to take forever or if it'll be too soon," she said. "Were you nervous?"

"About?"

"The first time," she said. "Marrying Addison. Were you nervous? Is it normal to be nervous? Even when you're sure?"

He regarded her for a moment. Addison had never been taboo. He brought her up when he needed to. But she rarely ever did unless it was a question about work or when she was trying to make a point of her own inadequacy. His eyes narrowed. She smiled, trying to let him know the subject wasn't some sort of trick or trap.

"I was nervous," he said slowly. Their eyes met, and she tore into his sharp stare. Why? That was the most plainly available thought on his face. Why? At the same time, she couldn't help but widen her grin as she reached across the space between them and splayed her palm against his chest, rubbing it against the soft cotton of his navy shirt. Because he'd told her without hesitation. Well, not hesitation over revealing the answer itself, anyway. His expression softened.

"Hey, Dr. Shepherd. Looking super!" the whirly blur of Dr. Heron said as she ran past, her pager bleeping loudly.

His gaze ticked around the hallway, and as if he'd suddenly become aware of the fact that they were having this discussion in plain view of everyone, with him in his pajamas, bandaged head, intravenous line, and his girl Friday tailing him with a wheelchair, he began to move again. He didn't seem to be having so much trouble with the publicity of his condition now that he wasn't stuck in the bed, but the way his lip twitched, the subtle slouch of his shoulders, and the way the smile stormed off his features as they flattened out into a schooled expression… He was better about it.

But not good.

He plodded forward, and the silence stretched again. She wheeled the chair along side him, suddenly aware of all the stares and scrutiny. Staffers. Nurses. Doctors. Everyone who passed except patients, who were clueless about who he was, seemed to want to contribute their own encouraging grin to the heap of well-wishing. She shook her head. There was really no use in worrying about it. Derek was doing okay. And, despite her fears about whether he should literally be walking until he dropped, he did need to be up and walking. Attention would be unavoidable. But distractions were good.

"Are you nervous, now?" she said, and then she winced, realizing what a freaking loaded question that was given the setting, the staring, and the circumstances. She rushed to clarify, "I mean about—"

"About marrying you?" he said, cutting her off. "No. But…"

"But what?"

He shrugged as his breaths deepened and started to rack his frame. "I'm nervous about doing it right this time," he said.

"Oh," she said. "I'm not. About you, I mean. Nervous." A brief smile stuttered across his face, followed by a little, jerky sigh that could have been a laugh. He kept walking. "Me doing it right?" she continued, "Another story entirely, though."

He blanched before he had a chance to reply. When he started veering toward the wall, she frantically turned the chair so he wouldn't yank out the line. A small, exhausted sigh peeled from his lips, and he panted. She frowned as he wrapped his fingers around the railing on the wall and stood, leaning heavily on it, eyes shut, silent.

"Are you okay?" she whispered, rubbing his back. He'd been doing really well.

"Yeah," he said. "I… Yeah."

"Do you need to sit?"

He shook his head as he pushed away from the wall. "Not yet," he said.

She stared at him, gauging him. The color had returned to his skin. His stare was sharp and clear, and his breathing had slowed to calm, relaxed rasps. He seemed comfortable off the wall, supporting his own weight again. Was he pushing too hard? She… Well, telling him she wasn't going to push the damned chair anymore unless he was in it would force him to stop moving unless he wanted to push it himself. But that would also… do bad things. Really bad things. To him. And his mindset. Which was what she was trying to avoid.

Stop worrying, she told herself. Stop it. Stop, stop, stop.

"Mere, I've already pushed myself beyond average," he said, smiling, as if he'd read her mind. "I'm just waiting to see how outstanding I am."

She snorted. "You would say that, Mr. Modesty. I'd give you an A, you know."

"Not an A plus?" he said with a sniff, but the crinkle of skin around his eyes belied his seeming hurt.

"I'm more into gold stars than pluses," she replied. "Fine, fine, start moving."

She followed him as he began to trek forward again. He shuffled a little so that he was in step with her, instead of her being slightly behind. He put his hand over hers and wrapped it around the wheelchair handle with her. The warmth of his skin seeped into her like a radiator. Caressing her thumb, he sighed.

"I'm not going to let it get bad again," he said, his voice low enough that passersby would probably only hear a murmur. "I'm not going to let myself. That's something I can definitely do."

She leaned into his arm, breathing in the warmth of his skin and the ends of his shirtsleeve. "Okay," she whispered, and they both paused in unison, as if he knew what she needed, as if he needed it at that very moment, too. She kissed him, brushing down his bicep, relishing the soft feel of the tiny hairs there as they shifted with her movement.

"Do I get a gold star?" he asked as she pulled away.

"Suck-up," she said. "Start walking."

He grinned. "You're very, very bossy, you know." He winked. "I'd better get a gold star for this."

Movement resumed, leisurely, unhurried, light. He really was doing freaking well. The seconds stretched, and were it not for the wheelchair and the lackadaisical pace, it might have been any other day, though, when she thought about it, they rarely walked for the sake of walking, outside, at Seattle Grace, or elsewhere. They were always trying to get somewhere. There had been the few times with Doc. And those had been nice. Painful. But nice. Really nice. The trails out by his land were beautiful. And peaceful. Perfect for walking. Walking lots.

She grinned when she thought about it. She'd be walking with her husband. Not her secret friend-but-not-friend with her dog-but-not-her-dog behind Addison's back. Her husband. Or, at least, her soon-to-be husband. Soon-to-be husband until the spring. March. April. May. Spring. She frowned.

"March and April are yucky months," she mused.

"What?" he said.

"Well, March is all winter-y still," she said. "And April is nothing but rain. I don't want a rainy wedding. Rain sucks. It's stupid. And it doesn't mean change at all. It just means wet. And wet sucks. Water. Sucks. With the possible exception of pools, lakes for skinny-dipping, rivers, oceans, streams, and all that. And showers. Particularly with you."

He glanced sidelong at her, a brief grin curling his lips. "Showery fun aside, we're in Seattle, Mere. Whatever month you pick, there will be rain."

"But April has mutant rain. Rainy rain. Sheets. Buckets. Cats. Dogs. Whatever. Everywhere. And I was thinking we could maybe…" she paused as her voice trailed away. What was she thinking? Stewart. Jail guard. She'd been guarding the jail, and Derek had come to rescue his team, or, at least serve as a distraction, but… "Connecticut. For your family. Your mother has that beautiful gazebo. And it's…"

"May?" he said.

"Do you want to do it in May? Is May nice in Connecticut?"

He sighed. "Meredith, I want what you want. Do you want May? It naturally follows the whole March, April train of thought, you know. That's the only reason I said it."

May. Ten months. Ten whole months. Almost a year.

"May seems so long," she said.

"It doesn't have to be in the spring, Mere."

"But I told Francine the spring…" she said. "It was a total bribe to make her go away! But…"

He smirked. "I'll pay her off. What do you owe? An arm? A leg? Both?"

"Christmas seems presumptuous or something, which rules out December," Meredith said, lost in her own world, enough that she completely missed the way his smile melted back off his face. Joke, falling flat, whoops! He licked his lips and kept walking. "And January and February are just asking for blizzards and badness," she continued. "Snow sucks more than rain. Precipitation just sucks, don't you think? And. Winter, no. Summer is, well, hot. September? That could be nice. Not sweaty and summery but not cold and icky either."

His pace started to slow. "Two months or fourteen?"

"Two. Fourteen. I. I don't know," she said as frustration burned through her like a fire. She really didn't. Two was awfully fast. Fourteen was awfully long. She felt like her own mother. Impossible to please. Everything seemed wrong. Except that wasn't really an adequate comparison, because nothing about this seemed wrong at all. Just… Terrifying. But good terrifying. Was it possible to be terrified in a good way? "Derek, I just—" She jarred to a halt, realizing he wasn't moving anymore. "Whoa. Hey."

A small hint of sound fell from his lips, and he stood there, eyes shut, breathing, breathing hard. He wasn't veering or moving at all, as if he didn't trust himself not to fall if he did. "I have to sit," he said faintly.

"Okay," she whispered. "I've got you." She wrapped her arms around his waist. "Here, okay. Okay?" She twisted, not letting him go while she inched the chair around with her foot so it was facing him. He wilted. Just like that. It was like he had batteries, and they'd just kept going and going and going like that stupid bunny until boom. Sapped. And he just couldn't go anymore. She'd never seen such a fast slip from walking to dead stop. He breathed hard, shuddering as he tried to settle himself.

She glanced up and realized for the first time in a while their surroundings. He made it so easy to forget what was going on around her when he smiled so much, when she kept thinking wedding things and months and everything… They'd rounded the corner and gone into the back wing, where it was less trafficked because it was mostly offices and labs, not a patient area, at least not one where patients stayed, anyway. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, the air was cool and mostly silent, save for the dull, unobtrusive hum of voices here and there and the soft patter of footsteps.

"Hey, you made it really far!" she said. "We're… Wow. Definitely gold star. Wow, Derek."

He smiled briefly after he'd caught his breath. "Yeah," he said, and then his mirth fell away into something… insecure. Something categorically un-Derek. "Mere?"

A pang of worry sliced her. "What?"

"Not two," he said, his voice barely audible.

"Not two?" she said. She frowned, wondering where exactly this was going. He was the one who had been all bit-chompy about this when she'd been floundering over even saying yes.

He shifted, clasping his hands in front of him as he sighed. She dropped to her knees, because it suddenly seemed very important to be eyelevel with him. She clutched her hands around his fists, which were warm and soft and perfect like they always were, and she caressed him, giving care and attention to each knuckle, line and bump. His gaze followed the movement of her fingers along his skin, and then he looked up to stare at her. His eyes narrowed, but it was a subtle revelation of the creeping relaxation that dragged him into a sort of peace, not anything to do with suspicion or fear. He sighed, and there was no doubt in her mind that this had nothing to do with cold feet or anything of the sort.

"I want," he began, taking a breath, "I want to marry you more than anything, but… Can we wait?" He leaned back into the chair, and his stare shifted elsewhere as he did some sort of calculation. "Six months," he said. But then he looked at her, the skin around his eyes ticked, and, as if he felt he was asking for her to hold the world in her hands and was ashamed to make her bear the weight alone, he amended, "Or. Or three. At least? I'm…"

She smiled at him. "Sure, Derek," she said. "This is why I was asking you, you know. I…"

He stared at her. "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Because I told you we could do whatever you want, but I…"

"Derek, it's really okay," she said. "I feel less waffle-y when you've actually offered input. It helps. You're helping. I have no idea what I want. Really. You're not ruining anything."

"I just. Not so much the wedding. The honeymoon."

She swallowed. She hadn't even thought about the honeymoon. Another thing on the list of scary items that required decision-making. Where? How long? "Yeah?" she said.

"I want to be able to drive my wife to the hotel," he said. "And I want to be able to make love to her until she's exhausted. Over and over and over. And I want…" his voice trailed away.

A swell of tears began to form and understanding coalesced. She reached forward and brushed his face. He seemed suddenly despondent. "What?" she prodded.

"To feel her fingers in my hair," he confessed.

"You just want to work The Hair in the wedding photos," she said, smiling, trying to bring some of the levity back.

His face flushed. "It's vain."

She wanted to agree. Except everyone was allowed to be vain once in a while. More than once in a while. There was nothing wrong with wanting to be handsome. There was definitely nothing wrong with wanting to have his license given back to him. And she couldn't possibly argue with him wanting to have his stamina back, which, while he really was doing excellent at the whole walking thing, was very sorely lacking. I want to be a person again, he was saying. I want to be me. And she couldn't ever fault him that. She couldn't ever.

"You're sexy to me, Derek," she said. "Now, or in three months or six. I hope you know that. But I get it. Waiting is fine."

He raised a hand to feel along the edge of the bandages. "It's easy to pretend right now."

She lunged up from her knees to a sort of squat, gripping the arms of the chair, and kissed him. He grunted in surprise, his hand fell away from his forehead, nerveless, down into his lap for one second, two, three, four, before he regained his wits, and he found the small of her back, began to caress, search, and tease.

"I don't have to pretend," she whispered as she pulled back.

"I do."

"Are you kidding?" she said. "You should model for Band-Aid. You'd make a killing. People would be spraining their ankles left and right, pardon the pun thing, just for the excuse to ogle the boxes in the whoops-I-broke-something aisle of the drug store."

"Meredith," he said, soft, imploring.

"Seriously, Derek," she said, but something in the way he held himself, the way he looked at her, made her stop. She wasn't helping. Not really. And he didn't want to be having this discussion. Not then. Not there. She barreled onward, barely allowing a heartbeat to fill her pause. "May is sounding attractive again, though," she said easily. Because it was easy. If he wanted to wait, she could wait. When it wasn't up to her anymore, the time between the now part and the married part didn't seem like waiting for nothing other than waffling. It had a reason to it. She had a reason. Derek wanted some time to heal, which, honestly, she felt vaguely guilty for not considering. Healing time was good. "I'd be almost done with my second year of residency, which might mean I'd almost have some decent leave accrued again," she said. Because even if the wait was about him, it didn't need to be because of him, and only him. There were benefits to the May thing. Plenty. She grinned. May was nice for travel, too. Warm, but not hot. "Where does my future husband want to take his future wife on their honeymoon?"

He grinned, and the crushing self-consciousness slumping his shoulders melted away. "Where does she want to go?"

"Anywhere?"

"Anywhere," he said with a nod, as if it were his penance for making her wait. Some penance.

She could have Derek. Anywhere in the world. Where did she want to go? Hawaii? Or maybe someplace more exotic. Paris. No. Well… No. She'd done a lot of that area already on her previous Europe trip. The United Kingdom and France. Germany. Switzerland. Maybe… Something a little more south. Italy. Greece. Spain. Or maybe somewhere in Asia. Thailand. Except as far as food went, she almost categorically disliked anything from that whole area, which might put a damper on things. Chinese, Thai, Japanese. Ick. Maybe Australia? Her head started to whirl at all the options, and her breaths quickened. She closed her eyes, trying to calm down. "Um," she managed, grasping for something, anything.

"Somewhere with a beach," she decided. Well, it wasn't much of decision. There were a lot of beaches in the world. But… "We've done planes, hotel rooms, hospitals… Why not beaches?"

She realized, vaguely, that beyond their brief stint skinny-dipping in his lake, she had no idea if Derek liked to swim. He'd only been in the water then because she'd pushed him. She didn't know if he liked to bake in the sun. She didn't know if he liked any of the whole beach-y watery things. Though, if there was anything about a beach she suspected he'd enjoy, it would be reading at night on the balcony, basking in the cool air, listening to the waves. That seemed apropos considering his love of older, classic literature.

He scrunched his nose, but, contrary to a more mundane objection, he surprised her. "Beaches are messy."

"Oh?" she said, trying not to sputter. "And what would you know about having sex on beaches?"

He shrugged. "Sand. Everywhere. It chafes."

"So, Derek Shepherd does beaches, but not planes."

An evil smirk spread across his face. "I can honestly say now that I do planes."

"I'm expanding your repertoire," she said.

He nodded. "You are," he said, and then he lowered his voice. "I take it Meredith Grey hasn't done beaches."

She rubbed his knee. "Nope. It chafes, huh," she said. "Well, how about we have sex on a balcony with a view of the beach?"

"I think that can be arranged," he said with a dirty grin.

The grin, however, faded quickly. He raised his arms to the rests of the wheelchair, his fingers fleeting against the edges before he clutched them. He lowered his feet from the rests, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and pushed up. He swayed like a tree caught in the breeze for a moment, but he stood, and the swaying reduced as he came to grips with his balance.

"Derek?" she said as he shuffled to the side, getting out of the way of the chair.

"I'm okay," he insisted. "I can go a little further." He took a step. "I don't want to go back yet."

She bit her lip, noting how his pace had shortened, and he'd reduced himself to shuffling as the fatigue started sinking its claws in deep, forcing him to slog through the extra drag. "Okay," she said. She didn't stop him. Promise me you'll stop before you kill yourself, she wanted to say, but she didn't. She didn't because he'd already done that. Already stopped to take a break. He was aware of his limits. He didn't need a freaking mother hen.

She rubbed the small of his back and followed, let him take his time. She couldn't help but marvel at how well he was doing. Whether it was his will offsetting what recovery hadn't done for him, or whether he really was just healing well, she couldn't be sure. She sniffed, smiling through a blur as he kept going. He was definitely not giving up. Definitely not wallowing. Not anymore.

"Where do you…" he began, only to stop as he lost his breath for a moment. He kept walking.

"What?"

"Live," he said. "Where do you want to live?"

"I suppose we can't just stay in my mother's house."

He smiled. "If you kick out Alex and Izzie, that could be okay."

She frowned. She couldn't kick Alex and Izzie out. Alex in particular. She'd just rented the room to him. Alex and Izzie both needed a place to stay that wasn't exorbitantly priced or seedy. They were interns. They had no money. Well, Alex certainly didn't. Izzie might have a nest egg from her modeling. Meredith didn't really have much money either, which was why she charged them at all. She was in serious debt from medical school, which her mother hadn't paid for. Her mother's estate had gone largely toward paying the fees for the nursing home and all the medical bills, which had been a mountain of astronomical numbers by the end. Ellis Grey had been well off, but early-onset Alzheimer's was just that. Early. Her retirement savings hadn't been nearly as mature as they should have been by the time she was forced to stop working.

Meredith sighed. She couldn't… Couldn't put Alex and Izzie out on the curb. Which meant… What did that mean? She didn't expect Derek to live in a house with all her friends, even if he hadn't basically just laid down the law and said he wasn't willing to do it for much longer. She'd always considered it miraculous that he was willing to do it at all, particularly lately, with Izzie and her ridiculously numerous moments of barging in unannounced save for a knock and a belting exclamation of some sort. Cristina had her moments, too. Only Alex and George seemed to have a concept of personal space.

But it wasn't just that she didn't want to force Alex and Izzie. It was… It was a lot of things. Her mother was dead, which meant the house was hers. But she always thought of it as her mother's house anyway.

"I don't know," she said. "I… No."

"No?"

"My house isn't good," she said.

"Other than the number of people in it… Why?"

"Because it's not my house," she said. "It's my mother's house. It's full of her things. Her photos. Her furniture. I still haven't cleaned it all out. It's not even really my taste. I like… Well, it's really dark. And I'm really kind of done with dark. Dark sucks."

He raised an eyebrow, stopping to look at her while he caught his breath and rested. "And twisty?"

She grinned. "You like my twisty."

"Are we talking literal twisty?" he said, waggling his eyebrows as he shuffled closer. "Or figurative?"

"I suppose it could be literal," she said. "You do like the figure-eight thing."

"The figure-eight thing?" he asked as he dipped his head and breathed against her neck, her ear, nuzzling through her hair. His arms wrapped around her and pulled her into him. The gesture was a weak one, whether through design or lack of ability, she wasn't sure, but he didn't need much. She stepped up against him, flattening, torso to torso, snaking her arms low around his waist. She gathered up tents of his navy shirt, clutching at him, and she stayed there against him. He breathed and breathed and breathed, resting against her, quiet, loving, warm, close.

"You know," she said, grinning into the small of his shoulder. She tilted her face, leaned up on her toes, and kissed his neck. "The thing. Where I'm on top. And I do the eights."

"Oh, that," he whispered, low and reverent, in her ear. He smirked. She could always tell, even when she couldn't see his face. "I do like that."

"But?" she said as she nuzzled his jaw line and pulled back to kiss him on the lips. He always smelled so good. When she leaned back, she stared into his clear, sparkling eyes, and smiled. So, so much better.

And it made everything feel better. Everything.

"Shoot for the stars, Mere," he said as he lowered his arms. "You should call it the infinity thing."

He started to shuffle again. One foot after the other. They'd made it into an even more deserted side hallway. She glanced at her watch. Six. That was starting to stumble into dinnertime, which was probably why everything seemed so empty. The labs were a zoo during normal business hours, there was a swell between four and five-thirty, and then everything dropped off for a while until after dinner. Most of the nurses and doctors would probably be skipping down to the cafeteria soon to grab a bite. She shook her head. It didn't matter. It didn't matter, because Derek was walking all on his own down hallway after hallway. The further away from his room that they wandered, the less he had people staring him down. He was walking, and happy, and they were talking about weddings and living arrangements and sex, and it was… So nice. So, so nice after the emotional meat grinder the last few days had been.

"If the figure-eight thing is the infinity thing," she said, "What on earth is your bendy thing?

He winked. "Just the bendy thing. It's a move without metaphor."

"I don't know," she said, licking her lips. "I get plenty of imagery when you do it."

"Oh, like what?"

She batted him playfully in the arm. "We've already established that I'm a crappy poet, Derek. Don't make me try to be all pretty-words about my orgasms."

"Mmm," he said, a dull smile caressing his features as he pushed onward.

"What?"

"Just imagining the words you do say when I've brought you."

She sighed. "I can't wait to get home."

He stopped, and his whole demeanor changed. The smile slipped away from him. His shoulders slumped. It seemed like whatever was causing him to tire had encircled all his limbs with chains and weights. "Mere…" he said. It was a long, worrisome sound that had little to do with sex, and she forced herself to stop and really assess. He'd been happy until she'd suggested home, which seemed completely incongruous with his desire to get out of this freaking place.

"What did I say?" she said.

A creeping blush hissed across his skin, which made her frown. He'd never blushed so much before this hospital stay. He licked his lips. "I know it's been a few days, Mere, and we usually… More often. But. When we get home. I think I might. Need time. But I want to. I do." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince her.

She frowned as she slipped into his space and drew him into an embrace. Did he really think she expected him to be firing on all cylinders in just a week? She suddenly felt guilty, guilty for all the things she'd been saying. She'd been playing. They played. They flirted. That was all it was. But…

"It's okay," she said. "I know… I know things might not be as bed-breaky and sweaty as they were before for a while, but Derek. Derek, I just don't care. I really need you. Just… You nearly died."

She sighed against his warmth, a creaking sort of sound escaping through her lips as he hugged her more tightly. She realized slowly that most of the kissing, all the sexy things, she'd been the one to initiate since he'd woken up. He asked for kisses, but it was sort of playful, joking. He never seemed to kiss her on his own. And every time he hugged her or touched her, it seemed more to be about reassurance than sex. But he had nearly died. He had. He'd nearly died, and she wanted… She didn't know what she wanted. Reassurance? Reaffirmation? Something that would tell her entire body that Derek Shepherd was fine and hers, something that would shatter the last slivers of doubt.

But that was stupid. Stupid, and unfair.

"I'm sorry," she said, swallowing around the painful lump forming in her throat. Her eyes started to sting. "I'm… I'm being really selfish. It's not… It's not just about the sex. I mean I want sex. I do. But this was… This was about… I don't know. Not sex. Just. You. Alive. Breathing. I'm. I'll wait. I'll stop. I don't mean to keep bringing it up. Well, I do. But I don't mean to make it sound like I'm some sort of needy, unsatisfied freak. It's not that at all. I'm…"

He sighed heavily. "You're not being. I just." He paused, almost growling into her shoulder. The rumble of it shook his torso, and his grip tightened around her. "Maybe it's just the painkillers," he admitted softly.

And then it all started falling into place.

"Oh. Oh, Derek," she rushed to say. "It's okay. I'm sorry. I didn't… Is it… You're not interested, or you don't think you can?"

Moments ticked by in silence. "I don't know."

"Derek, it's barely been forty-eight hours since you were wheeled out of surgery," she said. "I was… I'm not expecting… I was flirting because we flirt. You…"

"I know," he said. "I like it. I just…"

"It doesn't give you a zing?" she offered.

"A…" He sighed. "No. No, it doesn't."

"Derek," she whispered. "It's really okay."

"I know I'm supposed to want it," he said.

"Again with the forty-eight hours thing," she said. "Seriously, Derek. We can have this discussion in a few weeks if something's still not right."

"But I like sex."

"I know," she said, frowning, realizing it wasn't just about the fact that he seemed to have suffered a hit to his libido from all the stuff that'd been done to him. It was the fact that he knew something should be happening that wasn't, some internal switch wasn't turning on, and that was a constant reminder to him that he wasn't okay. Because, like he'd said, Derek Shepherd liked sex. Or he used to, at least. It was part of his behavioral pattern. The flirting. The fact that his body wasn't behaving correctly would be readily apparent. A lot. And it wasn't exactly something he could easily ignore.

_At least it didn't mess with my libido. I think I'd take panic attacks over no sex._

She swallowed, realizing the potential mess they were heading toward. Anti-epileptics were notorious for messing around with sex drive and function. Then again, so were painkillers. And half of the other crap he was on. And there was fact that he was recovering from serious trauma.

He stood quietly in her embrace. "I love you," he whispered.

She swallowed, thoughts racing as she tried to come up with something acceptable to say. "I know. I know it's not me. And I definitely know it's not you. We'll worry about it if you're still having trouble after you're off codeine. Seriously, I get it, Derek. Okay?"

"Okay," he said, sighing against her. "Mere?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't stop flirting."

She grinned, pulling away. "As if I could. You're too sexy for me to restrain myself. You're a Meredith magnet."

He snorted. "Mmm. Too sexy for your wrath. Too sexy for your restraint. I do like being too sexy. Just don't equate me to one of those little electric bug zappers. Moth to a flame is overdone, even for bad poets such as yourself."

"You are electric, you know," she said.

He laughed. Really laughed as he started to move, deep and throaty and healthy. "Dr. Grey, my poor, poor poet, I have no comment for that one. You've rendered me speechless."

Her jaw dropped, but she forced herself to move before he overstepped the limits of his intravenous line. "You. I. I didn't mean like **that**. I meant the feeling! Not you. The feeling between us. It's electric. Damn it."

"It's okay," he assured her, whuffing with soft laughter. "It's not exactly an insult to my prowess or anything. Just, you know, everything else." He chuckled softly, and he didn't wince or stop himself. And that was perfect, despite the fact that she'd inadvertently made something that was supposed to be romantic into something very, very off-color.

The next hallway passed quickly despite the glacial pace. Derek shuffled. Though he'd started farther away from her, he moved closer over the crawl of moments. He had his hand wrapped around the IV pole on the chair. His grip wasn't tight, but it was clear he was feeling less and less independent. She watched him, watched his face. He was getting tired. Really tired. But there was nothing else there, nothing negative anyway. People passed them in the hallway now and then, greeting them with cheery, "Hello, Dr. Shepherd, Dr. Grey," from time to time. And Derek, for the most part, actually managed to start smiling and say hello in return. The grins he gave to others didn't quite reach his eyes. She was sure he was being convincing to the people who didn't know him as well. Not to her. But even the fact that he was faking it was phenomenal. And he really seemed to be making an effort not to let the scrutiny drag him down.

"So, not your mother's house," he said, breaking into her daze. "Where do you want to live?"

"I think we should get a house. A new one. It'll be…" She smiled. "It'll be ours."

"So," he said. "You want a house?"

"You think we should get a condo or something?"

"I don't need a lot of space."

"You've never been much of a stuff person," she said.

"I guess not," he said before amending, "Well, some of it is just that I haven't had time to accumulate."

"Hmm," she mused. "An apartment type thing overlooking the water could be nice."

He stopped, breathing, resting heavily on the wheelchair handle. The chair really wanted to roll, but she dug down and held it. His eyes drifted shut, but just when she was about to ask him if he needed to sit again, a dreamy smile glided over his features. He sighed. "Yeah. That could be nice. We could drink coffee on the balcony in the morning while we watch the ferries." He opened his eyes, took a short, preparatory breath, and started moving again.

She smiled at the thought of them sitting in bathrobes on a balcony overlooking the water. It seemed so blessedly normal after all the crap they'd been through. Normal and perfect and so many things in between. She flexed her fingers around the wheelchair handle. He really liked the water, beach mysteries aside. And fresh air. And, even if he wasn't gung-ho about the camping and wilderness thing, he did like it. He liked having access to it. There were lots of places with water outside of Seattle, but one place in particular struck her mind with clarity. Because it had trails. Trails that were perfect for walking. And a lake. For fishing. And all that stuff Derek loved.

"Derek, what about your land?" she said.

"What about it?"

"We could live there."

He stopped and frowned. "Oh, Mere," he said. "You don't want to live in that trailer. Do you?"

She smiled. "I love your trailer."

"To visit," he countered.

"I love your trailer," she repeated.

"Addison and I fought about that trailer almost every day," he said.

"I'm not Addison," she said. "She might be leggy and fabulous, but I'm about… oh… a tenth of the maintenance? I don't need a closet just for my five million dollars worth of shoes."

"I happen to like your legs, you know," he said with a smile before it dripped away. He sighed. "You're definitely not Addison," he added in a quiet voice as the skin around his eyes ticked. She wondered how much ribbing he'd gotten for the trailer. And the loving Seattle thing. And everything that had changed when he'd split for the West Coast. Because he had. He had changed. Immensely. She'd never really gotten that before the family reunion. Before she'd seen him in Manhattan.

"Is that why we never had a where-are-we-living discussion when you moved in?" she said. "You thought I'd hate living there?"

"You were taking me back, Mere," he said. "I didn't want to make a production about where we would be living. Home is… Home is with you."

She began to realize the extent of just exactly why they'd never had a discussion about where to live when they'd gotten back together. Why he'd never said a word about the gaggle of interns living in her house, despite the fact that he obviously didn't like them around all the time. He'd sort of slipped back into her life quietly. Moving a box here, moving a box there, changing the address on his license, altering magazine subscriptions. But he'd never asked her about it, almost as if he'd suspected, if he'd asked, something bad would have happened and wrecked it.

"You'd really want to live in the trailer?" he said.

"I wouldn't mind," she said. "Though, I would like to… Well…"

"What?"

"Maybe a house?" she said. "We could have a house built. On your land. You have a lake. And it's quiet. You'd be happy. Maybe you could teach me how to fish."

"You'd hate fishing, Mere," he said. He started moving again. Really. Really. Slowly. His gaze drifted to the floor in front of him, and he watched his feet as he put one in front of the other.

She bit her lip, trying to ignore the urge to ask him to stop. "Would I?" she said.

"It's sort of…" He struggled for a word. "Well, you'd probably think it's the most boring thing on the planet."

She shrugged. "You like it."

"I love it," he said with a glowing smile, despite the effort of moving that was starting to make him shake.

"Why?" she asked.

"I don't know. It's just… It gives me time to think. I can… I can get perspective."

She'd never really watched him fish. It'd been one of those things she'd just… Fishing was his thing. She'd caught him on the docks that once, when she'd shoved him into the water, and he'd pulled her in after him. Beyond that? Never. But it fit. Him silently enjoying the earthy scent and the lap of the water, the cool breeze, and just… The peace of it. Derek liked to think. Sometimes that was to his benefit. Sometimes not. But he was a thinker. He mulled over things to the point of implosion. Derek camping, fishing, all that… She'd sort of left him on his lonesome there. But she liked the trailer. She liked the fresh air. She liked the walking bits.

_I want you to know me. I want to start over._

They'd really sort of missed doing that. And then all this had happened.

"When you're feeling better," she said. "I want you to take me."

"Fishing?"

"Yes," she said. "On your land."

"Fishing on my land. Why?"

"Because you love it," she said, stopping.

He turned his head to look at her. "Seriously?" He stopped as well.

"Seriously," she replied, wrapping her arms around him. He shook. Barely. When he wrapped his arms around her, she felt him leaning against her, his weight started to settle against her, and she knew. He was fading. But he wasn't sitting.

"If I beat you, though, you owe me," she added as she whispered into his neck.

"Hah," he said, the word buffeting her cheek as he breathed next to her, his inhalations and exhalations short and clipped, but slowing now that he'd stopped moving again. "A contest? Meredith Grey, I do believe you'd be the one owing me by the end."

"We'll see," she said. "How hard can it be? You stuff a worm on a hook and pray, right?"

"Fly-fishing doesn't involve worms, Mere. Hence the name."

"I thought you just sit on the dock with your beer," she said, teasing.

"Not when I'm trying to beat my fiancé at catching fish."

"So, the beer and fishing thing," she said. "That's more about the beer drinking. Isn't it?"

He frowned. "It's about multi-tasking."

"With one task sorely lacking in attention…"

"I don't like getting drunk."

"Which doesn't necessarily preclude drinking, now, does it?" she said. "I suppose you always catch a fish."

He winked. "More fish than you, anyway," he said. He finally pulled away, staring at the newest hallway with dull eyes. He took a breath and started to move again.

"Oh, it's on, Der," she said, following. He needed to drop on his own. She wasn't going to make him stop. She couldn't. "And no fair rigging my pole to misfire or something. Er. That sounded wrong. I mean--" she sighed, giving up trying to correct herself. He was paying so much attention to moving that he hadn't seemed to notice her latest faux pas. Or he was just too tired to laugh at her.

One step. Two steps. Three. He stopped. "What does the loser owe?"

"Charts for a month?" she suggested. No paperwork would be a siren call to him.

And, sure enough, he considered her offer for all of two seconds, long enough to get through his next short stride. "Oh, that's a deal," he said. "My land. You'd really be happy with that kind of commute?"

She pushed the wheelchair another step forward. "I like riding the ferryboats. Especially with hot neurosurgeons."

"I have a thing for ferryboats, you know," he said, stopping.

"Do you?"

"Yes," he whispered. "It's very intense."

"Is it?" She touched his shoulder, and he turned into her.

"Mmm," he replied, low and rumbly. The moment stretched, and for a slice of passing time, everything was fine. He was in her arms, and she was in his. They interlocked. Warmth shivered in the space between them where they weren't already touching. He breathed her in, lingering just over her right ear, pushing his nose into her hair. She sighed, sighed at the smell of his soap, his body. His arms tightened, and she was in a cocoon. She wasn't holding him up. He was there, keeping her safe and loved and perfect, letting her relax him.

First his muscles started to shiver. Then he started to sway in her grasp. A weak, short sigh racked him, and his whole body seemed to slump at once. "Okay, I need to…"

She guided him into the chair. "Do you want to go back to your room?" she asked as he settled, and she rubbed his shoulder.

"No," he said, shaking his head even as his eyelids drooped. "Take me somewhere."

"Okay. Any requests?"

"Just not back to the bed yet. I'm tired, but I…"

She smiled. "All right. How about the atrium? You could soak up a little sun. Well. You could stare at the gray sky and imagine the sun that you could be soaking up if you lived somewhere not here. Actually, it's getting late enough that sun might be a pipedream no matter what the cloud situation. But, still--"

He breathed. "Anywhere."

She watched his head dip forward as she pushed him back the way they'd come, toward the elevator, back to relative civilization. She reached over his shoulder to rub his chest. He muttered something, but he was mostly gone, catching a brief nap as she shoved onward. She wondered whether it was wise to feed his desire to not rest when his body seemed to be so explicitly demanding it. But… No. Bad mother hen, she scolded herself, and kept moving.

She wheeled him into the elevator. His breaths came even and soft and deep as she stepped around him to hit the button for the sixth floor. The atrium was basically an expansive corner room with sofas and chairs and tables and fake plants. It had huge windows on two sides in addition to three narrow rectangles of skylight. There was a large flat-screen television set up as well. Patients tended to flock there during the day, but it wasn't so active as the day wore into evening.

The elevator door had just started to trundle shut when an arm slipped through the closing gap and halted it. The noise startled Derek, who twitched awake. Dr. Burke stepped onto the elevator.

"Derek, Dr. Grey," Dr. Burke said.

"Preston," Derek replied, blinking. He raised a hand and wiped it over his face. He swallowed and shifted slightly in his seat.

"Hi, Dr. Burke," Meredith said, biting her lip. This had the potential to be a serious mood-killer. On the other hand, Derek seemed practically asleep, which might alleviate any potential self-consciousness.

"I'm looking for Cristina," Dr. Burke said without preamble as the elevator doors started to close again and the lift began to hum.

"Haven't seen her," Derek said.

"I haven't either," Meredith added.

"Oh," said Dr. Burke. For a moment, things seemed to stall, and all that hung in the space between them was the silence. Well, the hum. The hum of the elevator. Humming. Technically not silence.

Derek looked like he was almost nodding off again when Dr. Burke added, "I heard you're not jockeying for Chief anymore."

"No," Derek said.

Meredith resisted the urge to laugh when all Dr. Burke did was nod. Really. She had to. Had to. She felt her face flush with heat. She ended up coughing. Both of them looked at her, and she waved her hands in front of her face. "Excuse me," she said in a light, choke-y voice.

"Congratulations on your engagement," Dr. Burke said.

Derek smiled. "Thanks."

Meredith shook her head. Men. So typical. No how are you. No gee, you look bad. No mention of the fact that Derek was sitting in a wheelchair. Just any other day in the elevator. On the way to surgery. La, la, la. God, she'd been worried. But they were both so freaking arrogant, she'd been worrying for nothing, she realized. Because Burke was Preston Burke. And Derek was Derek Shepherd. And there was no wheelchair or sickness there.

"Cristina and I will be getting married next week. Saturday. The day after the intern exams. I need a best man."

Another burbling eruption of laugher was stifled as she registered what Dr. Burke had said. Damn. That meant… Damn. Though, she supposed there was the hope that Cristina simply hadn't worked up the nerve to talk to him yet, and not that she'd talked and gotten flattened.

"Sure," Derek replied.

"Thanks, man," Dr. Burke said.

"Do I need to plan anything?" Derek said.

"The bachelor party."

"Drinks at Joe's?"

"Sounds good."

The elevator doors opened onto floor six. She rolled out with Derek. Dr. Burke stayed behind. "I'll see you around," Dr. Burke said. "I need to find my fiancé."

"What?" Derek asked after the doors had slid shut again.

"Nothing," Meredith replied with a sigh. "It just means Cristina lost. I think."

"Lost?"

"I… We talked," she said. "About getting married."

"You did?"

"Yeah. I sort of. Well, I think I'm lucky. That's all."

"You scored me," he said, grinning. "Of course you're lucky."

"There's that modesty I love," she replied.

"I know," he said. "I try." And then his face slipped into seriousness. "I'm luckier."

She crouched, putting her hands on his knees. "Thanks for not… Well. Thanks for letting me do this at my own pace. It's…"

"I love you," he said. "It's worth it."

"I love you, too," she said.

She rolled them to the atrium, which was blessedly empty. The sun hung low on the horizon, which was a green, organic line of trees, and cast glowing rectangles of fiery, glowing orange across the room. The large television had been turned to CNN and hummed dully in the background. She moved the wheelchair over to the huge, fluffy but worn, sagging couch in the middle that had seen some better days. She pushed the coffee table away and lined him up next to the cushions.

"Do you want to sit on the sofa, or?" she asked, only to realize he'd nodded off again while they'd been moving. "Chair it is then," she whispered, giving his shoulder a brief, light rub. This was at least the third time he'd fallen asleep on her while she'd been transporting him somewhere, and it sank warmth deep behind her heart. He really did trust her. Really.

She pulled a book from the bag she'd hooked over the back of his wheelchair. Cardio. The one major subject area she hadn't really touched on yet. She laid herself out on the sofa, sighing as she stretched all her muscles and loosened up, getting ready for the studying thing. Cardio, cardio, cardio, she thought, trying to get into the mood. She rubbed her temples. The words finally began to flow, and the minutes dropped over the horizon with the sinking sun.

He woke with the twilight, though, for the longest time, he sat there, his eyes sort of open, but he didn't speak, almost as if he weren't processing the world yet. She noticed him when she looked up from chapter four. "Derek?" she whispered.

He blinked, looking up at her with a smile. "Sorry, tired," he said. He rubbed his face with his hands, leaning forward over his knees, stretching. He heaved a large breath that rolled through his entire frame.

"Do you want to go back?" she said, closing her book. She sat up, ready to get up and take him back.

In answer to her question, though, he stood and hobbled to the couch, sinking down onto the cushion next to her. She eyed the intravenous line, but the chair was so close that there was still plenty of give. He leaned back against the cushions, raising his arms, and she gratefully sank against him, curling up with her book.

"You make a way better pillow," she commented.

"One of my many talents," he answered with a sigh.

He stroked her shoulder absently while she read from her book. Every once in a while he'd contribute, but he mostly seemed content to just sit there. His breaths came evenly, and, without looking, she guessed that he was hovering in sleep more often than out of it. She turned the page, moving onto chapter six. Heart murmurs and congenital heart defects. She read the chapter heading without actually absorbing it, instead drawn to the picture of the bald little blue-eyed model baby in the margin. He was smiling, and his eyes sparkled for the camera.

"How many..." she whispered as she ran her index finger over the picture.

His fingers clenched, and his whole body twitched. "Hmm?" he said. She looked up to see him blinking sleep away.

"How many kids do you want?" she said.

He looked down at the page she stared at, the one that plainly explained just how much could go wrong with one tiny organ in one tiny person, and he frowned. The cloud of sleep imprisoned in his somewhat glassy stare dispersed, and his gaze sharpened. He blinked again, once more, again, and breathed.

"Why do you keep bringing kids up?" he asked when he'd finally schooled himself.

She closed the book. "Because I love you," she said. "And I... I guess I always knew you wanted them, but I only recently figured out how much, and I... It's."

"I want them a lot," he said, the conviction in his tone giving her little room to doubt. Even still, he added a softer, "I do."

"Why's it bad that I keep bringing them up then?" she said.

"It's not bad. It's just..."

"What?"

"Mere, having kids," he said. "That's a lot to put on you. It's your body that'll be affected. It's your career track that'll get interrupted. Not mine. I'm already where I want to be professionally, but you? You're just starting."

"What are you trying to say?" she asked.

"Just that… Mere, I'd get it if you... I mean. You're enough. For me, you're enough. You're more than I ever thought I'd... Don't ever think you're not enough by yourself."

"I thought you really wanted kids," she said.

"I do, Mere," he said, loosing an exasperated sigh. "But not at your expense. I want kids. But only if you do."

"That's what I'm trying to decide."

"No," he said. "No, I mean. I don't want you to want them just because you know I do."

"Oh," she said.

She stared at him as she sat up, and they resettled, facing each other, nose to nose. He rested an elbow against the back of the sofa, and jammed a knee into cushion. She did much the same. Inches. Inches hovered in the space between them. Just inches. She could see every fleck of darker blue that dotted his irises. She could see the ring of dark royal bluish black that separated the color from the white. His eyes couldn't really be categorized as light blue or dark. They shifted with the light. And, in the dimness left in the wake of the sun's disappearance, they appeared almost black, even when she was as close as she was. But there was nothing cold or harsh about his gaze, nothing biting or sharp like what appeared when his anger snarled. He didn't look conflicted. Or sad that he'd just given something momentous up. His gaze softened as he stared back. She blinked. She leaned forward. The cushions squeaked as she shifted. She kissed him. Nothing serious. Just a quick, reassuring thing. He sighed against her lips, and she hovered before leaning in, resting her forehead against his, closing the inches to nothing.

"How many kids do you want?" she asked.

His eyes shifted back and forth in little ticks that said he was considering her. "Two," he replied.

She raised an eyebrow. For some reason, she'd pictured him wanting an army of them. At least four. "Why two?"

"I don't know," he said. "One just seems lonely, and three is… A lot. Particularly for someone my age and for a couple like us with such a busy schedule."

"Two kids."

He nodded. "Yeah."

"If I messed up being a mom," she said. She reached up to run her palm along his cheek. "At least they'd have you."

"I don't think you'd mess up, Mere," he said. "At least not more than anyone else."

"Because my history as a family person is so glowing."

He shrugged. "We'd figure it out."

"You wouldn't need to."

"I would."

"Haven't you had practice with your family?" she said.

He'd been so good with Mary and Annie, both of whom had obviously spent time with him before the moments she'd seen. They knew he would play cards with them. They knew he would color with them. They knew him. He had to have had some practice. Something. More practice than she had ever had. Which was squat. He was just… He was cut out for it. He was a dad. Even without kids. He was perfect for it.

"Mere," he whispered as he reached forward, placed the flats of his palms against her head, as if he wanted her to know, know innately what he was about to say. "If you're asking if I know how to change a diaper or stuff a bottle into the right end of the kid, yes," he continued, "Yes, I've had tons of practice. But having kids with you? Being parents? We'd both be lost. Trust me."

"Yeah, but you've got it," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "It?"

"The instinct for it. The dad thing."

"You do, too," he insisted. "Not the dad part. Just… You know."

"You seriously think so?"

"I've seen you with kids, Mere," he said. "You're not as clueless as you seem to think you are."

She shook her head. "Doctoring kids isn't the same."

"No, but it's a start," he said. "It's the same kind of practice I've had, just in a different setting."

"I'll think about it, Derek."

"I would never ask more of you. I'm happy, Mere. I am. I mean it. I have what I want most in life. I'm very sorry it took all this to make me figure it out, though."

"I know," she said. "This was a clue-in for me, too, in case you hadn't noticed. We both… It's awful, but I think we both needed this. I mean, just look at this. We're having a discussion. With words. And stuff."

He sighed. "We are pretty dense."

"We're getting married, Derek," she whispered, unable to stop the smile that overwhelmed her. "I'm engaged!"

He grinned. "Yes."

"I'm going to be Mrs. Derek Shepherd."

"Yes."

"This is so weird," she observed.

"Believe me, Mere," he said, smiling. "You're not alone. Two years ago, if you'd asked me where I'd be now, I'd… Well, let's just say it's a good thing my life's not a trivia game. I'd get all the questions wrong."

She laughed, reaching for his left hand. He let her take it. She caressed him, caressed his fingers. His eyelids drooped, and he sighed in relaxation. He moaned his appreciation as she drew his hand up to her lips and kissed it. She stared at his ring finger, trying, once again, to imagine a wedding ring there. He really did have the perfect hands for it. And she knew he'd had one. Addison had one. She'd flashed it all over the place, particularly in the beginning.

"Derek? This is a really weird question. But."

"Yeah?" he prodded.

"What'd you do with your old ring?"

He raised an eyebrow. "My wedding ring?"

"Yeah."

"It's in a box in storage, I think," he said. "Why?"

"If you still had it, why didn't you wear it when you tried again?"

He was silent for a long, long time. "I guess I wasn't trying very hard," he admitted.

"Oh."

"Mere?"

"Yeah?" she said.

He took his hand from hers, ran his fingers up her neck, soft, fleeting, to cup her jaw. He captured her gaze as he petted her jaw line. "With you, I don't have to try."

They exchanged a long, serious look. I know, she said. Except she didn't say it. But from the way his eyes glittered, he seemed to have gotten the message. Meredith sighed, resettling her head against his shoulder. She listened to his heartbeat thumping softly in his chest, ran a palm against the flat plane of his stomach. He sucked in a breath and then sighed as she slipped her hand under the hemline of his shirt, sliding across his firm but supple skin. He kissed the top of her head.

"So," she said, smiling. "May?"

He nodded. "May sounds perfect."


	45. Chapter 43

**Author's Notes: Well, this part has certainly been a long time in the making. I'm so sorry! I hope you enjoy it. I will be honest, if you've been holding back on some feedback love, I could really use it right now even if it's a concrit that blasts me to heck ;p I got to delve into a lot more back story here, which made me quite happy. About sevenish more parts to go at this point, depending. We'll see :) **

* * *

A roaring sound wrapped in a curl of shouting voices woke Derek up. He blinked once, twice, three times as a swarm of nurses and doctors pushed the crash cart past his door, but the blur was slow to resolve, and the ceiling remained an unfocused, white blur. This wasn't the first time, or the second, or the third, and he was slowly discovering that there were benefits to being drugged out of one's mind. It made light sleepers into heavy ones, for instance. He swallowed, trying to dispel the dry, cottony feeling in his mouth, but it wouldn't go away.

He tilted his head, staring at the floor for a long set of moments. Tired. Too tired. This wasn't the first time he'd been woken up, or the second, or the third, but it was the first time he'd been woken up and accompanied by the absolute lack of desire to physically get up. The constant noises and interruptions had worn him down, worn him down to the point of giving up on moving around at all. Walking all over the hospital with Meredith the day before had robbed him of everything. He hadn't had much left to wear down.

He raised his watch. 8:00AM. It had only been two hours since Abasi had forced him to sit up and take pill after pill. He'd gotten up then. That had been the last straw, apparently. Meredith had been out cold on the sofa, snoring softly over a book on organ transplant procedures. He'd used the bathroom and gone for a quick stroll up the hall and back. Except it hadn't been quick. By the time he'd gotten back to the bed, he'd been too exhausted to do anything other than surrender back into sleeping despite the racket Meredith had been creating. She'd remained asleep for the duration, despite the loud flush of the toilet and the steady rumble of the IV pole as he'd dragged it across the floor. He'd marveled at her ability to sleep through anything. Marveled. And he'd envied it.

He let his eyes fall shut and tried to let sleep take him away again. Meredith sat to his left in a chair, highlighter squeaking over the pages of some medical volume. Her soft breathing rasped in the space next to his heart monitor. The almost-inaudible bleeps seemed thunderous, and her breathing was a pelting wind more than a soft, balmy breeze. His mother sat in the red loveseat on the other side of the room. She wasn't knitting. But even she was making noise. Moving subtly. From the sound of it, she had a newspaper. The pages shivered and crinkled. Some nurses stood down the hall, gossiping about something, if their scratchy, laughing tone was any indication. He couldn't make out the words.

He gave up on sleeping then, too. For a moment, he debated forcing himself onto his feet, but the debate lasted all of five seconds. No. No more. His body was done for a while. "Mere," he whispered, "Could you get me some water, please?"

Meredith opened her mouth to reply, but the words that followed came from across the room. "I'll get it," Ellen said. The sofa squeaked.

Meredith put her book down and leaned over the railing. "Hey," she said, smiling. She kissed him, gentle, like a wave, before reaching down to grasp his hand and stroke her lithe fingers against his knuckles.

His mother pushed his tray table over his lap and set a small Dixie cup down. "Good morning, sweetheart," Ellen said, her deep, blue eyes drowning in concern, a message of doubt etched in every crease of color in her irises, every line of age on her face. Derek doesn't ask for water. He gets it himself. "How are you feeling?"

Tired. "How long have you been here?" he said.

Ellen shrugged. "I came in at 5 with Mark," she said. "But I didn't sit down until 6:30. Why?"

He sighed in reply. The tray table hung over his lap, just waiting for him to sit up, sit up and take the water, but the cup seemed like it was a marathon away. He swallowed and closed his eyes.

Ellen's weathered fingertips brushed his cheek, and the bug under a microscope feeling amplified. He'd been poked and prodded and monitored and stared at for three days, and even his family was starting to grate. He wanted to hide in a closet, curl up under a big, fluffy blanket that would disguise the fact that he was even there, and go away. A brief stab of guilt slipped between his ribs, because at the same time, he almost expected someone to be with him whenever he woke up, which was… comforting. Comforting against the nerves. The nerves over the fact that he was still essentially helpless. He could walk. He could move. But not far, and not fast. He almost preferred his hospital stay the week before, when he'd been concussed. He'd been too confused, slow, and overwhelmed to really care about anything except the hole a year of his life had drowned in.

"Sweetheart, do you want the bed up?" Ellen asked when he didn't move to drink the water she'd provided.

No. "Okay," he said.

The bed hummed, and his body folded at the waist with no effort on his part. He opened his eyes. His mother had pulled up a chair on his other side, and he was surrounded. The water came within reach. He moved his hand to take the cup, but his whole arm felt like a dead weight. Tired. Fatigue. Too much, yesterday. Just too much. He drank the contents of the cup slowly. The cool water slipped down his throat like a stream through a land cracked with drought. It touched him, deep and soothing and soft.

He put the empty cup back and stared blankly at the floor.

"Do you want to get up?" Meredith asked.

"No," he said.

A knock sounded on his open doorway, and an orderly, the one from before, Nick, brought in a tray of food. "Good morning, Dr. Shepherd," he said brightly. "Breakfast."

"Okay," said Derek as his mother took his cup away to make room for the tray of food. A steaming plate of rubbery eggs swimming in yellowish fluid, some glistening wafers of sausage, and a little travel-sized box of cheerios complete with a small carton of milk comprised the latest meal offering. The silverware sat against the napkin, dull and lusterless. He leaned back and closed his eyes on the blur of Nick's departing frame. The smell of it made his stomach turn, but the sight of it was worse. He sighed. Hospital food was…

"Derek, sweetheart, you should eat," his mother offered into the silence.

He opted not to answer, trying to let himself drift back. Back to somewhere. Sleeping. He heard his mother shuffling in her seat, probably debating whether to prod him or not. Her eyes were on him, boring into him. He could feel it. He hated that. He hated that he'd managed to bring all the bad memories back.

He knew he looked a lot like his father, from the pictures more than the memory. He had a picture that his mother had given him when he'd first moved out of the house. He wasn't a picture in a frame person. He didn't display his life behind panes of fingerprinted glass and tarnished silver for everyone to see. But he liked to look and remember. He kept the photographs he had in his bedside drawer in an envelope. Once in a while, he would pull them out and stare. And he did look like his father. He looked like his mother, too. But he favored his father. The cleft of his chin. The shape of his forehead. The dark hint of stubble that never seemed to disappear, no matter when he'd shaved. His ears. The way his hair had a tendency to frizz up the longer it grew. The lines around his mouth. And the eyes. Particularly the eyes. Elongated half-moons ending in subtle crow's feet.

Derek reminded his mother of David Shepherd.

Every time Derek looked at her since she'd arrived in Seattle, he'd seen the memories etched all across her face in deep, careworn lines of concern. The way her eyes squinted. The way she would, when she wasn't knitting, wring her hands together in a nervous flutter of worry. He wondered if she'd been knitting so much while she'd been there because it gave her hands something to do, and not so much because it was a hobby that traveled well.

He'd been at home when his mother had gotten the call from the hospital. It had been a summer day. August. Two weeks before school had been scheduled to start again. The air had been so hot that, over pavement and off the hoods of cars, it had wavered and made the world beyond the hotspots shimmer. He and Mark had just come home from T-ball practice at the park. His father had been supposed to pick them up, and they'd waited for over an hour before opting to just walk. They had been used to plans getting interrupted at times because his father had worked in the emergency room and often got held up.

His mother had received the phone call. Her face had bleached itself of color. She'd fumbled for a chair, but as soon as she'd hung up the receiver, and Derek had asked what was wrong, she'd jerked as if she'd been startled, her eyes had widened as she'd stared at Derek, and then she'd bolted. She'd locked the bedroom door behind her. Mark had stayed in the kitchen while Derek had chased after her. He'd heard the soft sound of her sobs, muffled through the door. An hour later, she'd come out, composed, called all of his sisters home, and they'd had a small meeting at the dining room table. She'd explained what had happened. And then they'd gone to the hospital. The morgue.

Another knock drew Derek's eyes open again. Dr. Weller smiled from the doorway. "Morning, Dr. Shepherd," he said, flashing a toothy grin as he moved into the room. He glanced at the untouched food tray. "Sorry to interrupt your breakfast. I'm running a little late today," he added as he closed the distance between him and the bed. He stopped at the foot and stared down. He did a quick neurological check, asking a peppering of questions, "Can you move you arms for me? Excellent. Okay, how about your feet? Good. Follow the light?"

"Looking great still, Dr. Shepherd," he said as he moved to the side of the bed and brought out his stethoscope. Ellen backed her chair away to give Dr. Weller room. "Can you lift up your shirt?" he asked, leaning over. Derek swallowed and fumbled with the hemline of his t-shirt. He got it midway up his stomach when Dr. Weller smiled, said that was fine, and slipped his hand up under the fabric. "This will be a little cold. I'm sorry," he said as he listened. It was. Derek breathed when told. Held his breath when told. "Wonderful, Dr. Shepherd," Dr. Weller said.

Temperature taking was the first act of the examination that brought a frown to Dr. Weller's face and a low, rumbling, "Hmm," to his lips instead of commentary on how super everything seemed to be going. "How are you feeling?" Dr. Weller asked as he read the gauge on the thermometer.

"Just tired," Derek said.

"He's not eating his breakfast," Ellen added.

Dr. Weller glanced at Ellen before returning his gaze to Derek. "Any trouble urinating?" said Dr. Weller.

"No," Derek said as a spike of worry hit him. Thermometer. Something was wrong with his temperature. He didn't feel hot. He didn't feel cold. Dr. Weller was checking for signs of urinary tract infection. Hot, then. Dr. Weller thought he had a fever.

"Any nausea?"

"No, except when I looked at those eggs."

Dr. Weller turned to look at the plate of cooling breakfast and chuckled. "Well, I don't think I can blame you there, Dr. Shepherd." Dr. Weller moved around to the intravenous line site and peeled the tape back, examining the skin slowly. He pressed gently on the skin around the catheter. "Any tenderness here?"

"No."

"All right, I'm going to check this incision, now," Dr. Weller said as he moved around the bed again. The tape and bandages tore, and Derek felt cool air laving his scalp.

His eyes darted to Meredith, but she wasn't staring at his scalp or the gnarled, ugly scar. She caught his gaze, her eyes twinkling. Everything's okay, her expression seemed to be saying. Everything's okay, and I love you. He closed his eyes and sighed, even as the sneaking, growing, writhing worry started to expand and grow and mutate into something awful. Infection. Now, Dr. Weller was checking for infection. Pressure snaked along his skin behind his ear.

"Does this hurt?" Dr. Weller asked.

"No."

"Have you been up and walking?" Dr. Weller asked.

Deep vein thrombosis. Pneumonia.

"He didn't want to walk when he woke up this morning," Ellen said.

"We walked for a couple hours yesterday, Dr. Weller," Meredith countered.

"I got up about two hours ago," Derek said.

"Really?" Meredith said, her tone betraying her surprise. But then she smiled. "I must have slept through it. That's great."

"You kind of snore a little. It's hard to hear me move over all that racket," Derek said, grinning back at her, but the grin dripped away like water. He couldn't hold it on his face.

"Okay," Dr. Weller said. "Well, you seem to have spiked a slight fever, but I don't see any cause for immediate concern. We'll see if it persists before we worry. I'll check back soon."

"A fever?" Ellen said. "Isn't that bad?"

"Not yet, Mom," Derek replied, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. Did he feel sick? He tried to self-gauge and only came back with exhaustion. Exhaustion. Exhaustion. He wanted to sleep. But he didn't feel hot. He didn't feel shaky or ill or have any problems breathing. He'd know if he was going septic. Or if he was coming down with pneumonia. And he'd certainly know if he had a urinary tract infection. He knew too much about the symptoms to ignore them, particularly after a major surgery. But. Fever. He didn't want to stay there longer. He didn't. He didn't. He couldn't. And if he had a complication, they would make him stay. They would make him stay.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Shepherd," said Dr. Weller, but his voice seemed like a distant rumble. "It might be nothing. Nothing looks infected, and he's been relatively active. Like I said, I'll check back soon, and we'll work from there. I'll send in a nurse to redo the bandages, take some blood, and put in a new intravenous line. Just in case. Sometimes, if the IV line is infected, which it doesn't look like, but we can't be too safe, just moving the catheter to another vein is enough to clear it up."

He started to shiver as Dr. Weller left. He leaned forward and drew his hands up to rub his face, only to tear his hands away from himself when his fingertips met his scalp instead of his hair. The skin was rough with the barest hint of stubble. But it was still skin, and that still shocked him. He drew out the motion of his startled withdrawal, making it look purposeful as he took his own look at the intravenous line site. The skin around the catheter wasn't red or streaky or hurting. Not infection. He swallowed. No. Infection, no. If he got an infection, he could go septic, his organs would start to fail, he'd be jammed full of antibiotics, probably put on a ventilator, and he'd be bed-ridden even longer. And he could die.

He let out a wry, soft laugh. Good to see he had his priorities straight. Dying after being put on a ventilator. And all of the sudden, he became aware of his mother's eyes boring into him. Again. She was looking at his scalp. She was looking at Derek and seeing a brain surgery patient. Seeing a man who'd died thirty years ago. David. Dead. Not Derek. Not Derek at all.

"Mom, I'm fine," he said, though his words came out raspy and weak. Really convincing. Sure. "Really, I'm… I'm fine."

She scooted the chair in closer "Are you sure you don't want to eat?"

"I'm tired, Mom," he said. He leaned back against the pillows and let his eyelids droop shut.

"A few bites?" she said. "For me, please?" He heard the clink of silverware and he opened his eyes a slit. She was picking up his fork. For him. She was… She was moving toward his hand with it, not toward his food, but all he saw was that she'd picked up his fork. For him. Like he was a fucking invalid.

"Mom, I can lift the fucking fork on my own," he snapped, grabbing it from her. Meredith stared at them both, biting her lip, her eyes wandering back and forth and back and forth.

His mother blinked. "Derek Shepherd," she hissed in a familiar, scolding tone. Derek Shepherd, what have you done, now? _Derek Shepherd, is there a bird in that shoebox? _Ellen's lower lip-quivered. _But it got hit by a car, Mom._ A small moan wavered through the space between them. And then she sighed. "I was only going to give it to you. I wasn't…" Her voice trailed away. She stared at him for a long, painful moment, and then she got up from her chair and sat back on the loveseat. She pulled her knitting project out from her red-striped tote bag and began to work at it, but not before he saw her hands shaking.

"I'm sorry," he said as he put the fork back on the tray table with trembling hands. "I'm… Tired. I'm just…"

A soft, warm touch on his left forearm pulled him out of a drift. "Derek, do you want to take another shower?" Meredith asked softly. "You might feel better."

He blinked, swallowing against the lump forming in his throat. He felt dirty, pasty, soiled. He hadn't showered since the first one. He'd changed his clothes, which had helped. But he hadn't taken a shower. He had felt better after the last one. He closed his eyes and imagined the thunder of the water, the pelting feeling as it beat against his tired muscles, the crease of his skin as she applied pressure with the washcloth and soaped him down. He could stand on his own. He could walk. Well, theoretically. He stared at the floor with a spark of hope overriding the overwhelming fatigue in his limbs. Maybe… Maybe he could actually do it by himself while she waited. Not that he would exactly mind her support. But he… Maybe he could do it by himself.

Another knock at his door pulled his gaze up. "Morning, Der," Sarah said cheerfully as she came into the room. She wore a tight white t-shirt under floppy, frayed, oversized denim overalls. Her black hair was pulled back into a twist that spilled out the top of a turtle-shell brown hair-clip. Her fingers clasped a Starbucks brand paper mug, and she'd slung her large, black leather purse over her other shoulder. She looked like a painter. Stewart followed just behind her, looking more like the walking dead than a person, his tall, pasty, lumbering frame slouched in full, exhausted effect. Lindsey and Annie tore into the room, bumping past both of them.

"Uncle Derek!" Annie exclaimed cheerfully as she skipped into the room, but the sound of her voice was almost painful against the tiredness he felt.

"Guys, quiet, remember?" Stewart said, his voice low and thick with sleep. "It's the crack of dawn for some people."

"It's 8:30AM, Stewart," commented Sarah.

"Like I said, the crack of dawn!"

"Uncle Derek," Annie said as she bounced to a stop beside the bed railing. She was just tall enough that she could rest her chin on top of the rail. Her black hair hung loose and curly down to her shoulders. She grinned, flashing two tiny rows of crooked baby teeth. "Uncle Derek, wanna color again?"

"Maybe later?" he said. He didn't think he could do it then, couldn't even bring himself to pretend with a fake smile. He just…

"Okay," said Annie excitedly, and he couldn't help but marvel at her energy even though it made him feel frail. "Mommy and Daddy bought me new crayons yesterday! We saw seals at the ac… aquari…" She frowned and looked at him expectantly.

"Aquarium," he said.

She nodded. "Aquarium!"

Lindsey came around behind Annie. "We get to see the Space Needle today, Uncle Derek! Have you been there?"

"Yes," he said.

"Is it really tall?" Lindsey asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"How come your hair is gone?" Annie said, her eyes wide and ponderous.

Lindsey poked her. "Hey!" Annie squealed. "Mommy, Lindsey's being mean."

Lindsey hissed, "Mommy explained already."

"But it's different than before," Annie countered.

"Girls," Stewart scolded, reaching out with large hands to pull the two of them away from the bed. The shuffled backward and stopped with a thump when they ran into his legs. "I'm really sorry, Derek," he said.

Derek swallowed. "It's all right." He closed his eyes, and within moments the sounds and the room around him blurred and he felt like he was floating somewhere in a roar. Maybe he didn't need to be stoned to sleep. He just needed to be tired enough. There were so many people in the room. Talking. He couldn't… He wasn't quite sleeping. Just hovering. He felt stares on him, and the volume died down immediately. Mind the sleeping, sick man in the bed, he thought idly, but he couldn't bring himself to tell them he was still awake and it was fine to make noise, because sleeping was hopeless anyway. He couldn't bring himself to move.

"He's acting really listless," Ellen whispered, grating, awful concern leaking from the cracks in her attempt at a flat, sure tone.

"It's just fatigue, Ellen," Meredith said. "It's normal. He's doing really, really well."

An awkward silence filled the room. At least Meredith wasn't freaking out anymore. He'd done something right then. The effort yesterday to move around had been worth it. Definitely. The fact that she'd been sleeping when he'd woken up in the morning, the fact that she didn't seem at all concerned by his fever… At least there was that.

"We just stopped in to say hello before we headed out," Sarah whispered. "Mom, do you want to come with us?"

"No, I'm staying here," she replied.

"It's okay, Mom," Derek mumbled, not opening his eyes. "You can go. I'm fine."

"I don't want to see the Space Needle," she snapped. "I want to sit with my son." The sound of her hands twisting the yarn grew agitated.

"Okay, Mom. Okay," Sarah said quickly, politically avoiding a fight like she always did. "We'll probably stop back in around dinnertime, okay? Maybe we can bring in some carryout or something and have a family dinner." The implication was clear. Maybe we can bring in some carryout because Derek can't go out. Derek can't leave. Derek's stuck. "Mom, will you at least come out to the car with us? You left some of your stuff on the floor in the backseat yesterday, and we figured you might want it."

A protracted silence fell down around them. The clink, clink, clink of Ellen's knitting stopped. She sighed, long, frustrated, shivery. Movement shuffled through the room, followed by a warm hand against his cheek. He couldn't stop himself from flinching away, and she drew her hand back like she'd been burned.

"I'll be right back, sweetheart," she whispered.

"I'm not dying," he snapped. He immediately regretted it. He slit his eyes open and saw her retreating through the door. Sarah swarmed her like a comforting mother hen, and the entire crew exited, leaving him alone with Meredith.

He sighed. "I shouldn't have said that." Why was he being so nasty? He drew his fingers up to his nose and rubbed them up and down along the sides, pinching.

"She's your mother, Derek," Meredith said. "I'm sure, after nearly forty years, she knows you tend to do the spitting, hissing, rabid animal thing when you're exhausted, and that you don't really mean it."

"That doesn't excuse it. She's just… She's thinking about Dad, and she's projecting it onto me, and I know it, but I can't… I should be able to humor her."

The morgue had been cold, austere, silent. The metal walls between the freezer spaces had glowed a sort of green, reflecting the immaculate, lime-colored tiles on the floor. The grout between the tiles, which had probably once been sparkling, immaculate white, had dulled to a dingy, stained gray. The main office had been a tiny, dark room filled with books and papers and musty journals. The pathologist had greeted them at the doorway with a somber look, and his mother had had to sign a bunch of forms. They'd waited. Quiet. Wide-eyed. Still too shell-shocked to understand what was going on in a deep, to-the-marrow way.

_What's wrong, Mom?_

_David. Dad… He died this afternoon._

Ellen Shepherd had prepared them before they had left the house, but it had been like studying for a test. What does death mean? Death means Dad isn't coming home. Like a vacation? No, not like a vacation. He's never coming home.

Natalie and Sarah had been too young to understand, and he'd watched his mother stumble with a quivering voice over words she normally would have said with surety and grace. Words like heaven, gone, heart, love. Died. She'd left Natalie and Sarah with the neighbors, but she'd brought Kathy, Nancy, and Derek to the hospital.

_Come say goodbye with me._

The pathologist had led them into the chilly, refrigerated section of the morgue, and there his father had lain, still and silent under a sheet. Sleeping. But not. Pale. Still. His mother had started to sob. She'd kept herself together through everything, but in the moment her gaze had landed on the body, she'd cracked like fine china lobbed against a wall. Her breaking hadn't been screaming or hysterics, though. Just quiet, shuddering, ugly sobs. And Derek remembered. Remembered exactly what she'd said as she'd picked up his father's hand and rubbed the cold, pale knuckles against her cheek.

_What am I going to do?_

He blinked back to the present as Meredith inched his tray table to the side and climbed into bed beside him, resting against his chest. "Hey," she whispered as she rubbed his chest. "Two more days, Derek. You're over half way." She kissed him softly on the lips. "And you're not getting sick," she added as she pulled away. "You're not going to have to stay."

"I have a fever," he said.

She nodded. "Yes. Do you even feel warm?" she added before putting the back of her palm against his forehead. "You don't feel hot to me. I'm sure it's nothing."

"No. A little. But." That might be because he was thinking about it. Somebody tells you you're hungry, you notice, wow, you're hungry. Somebody asks you if it's hot, and suddenly you're hyperaware that you're uncomfortable. Maybe it was like that. He leaned back against the pillow and sighed.

She gestured toward his chart, eyebrows raised. "If you want," he said. She crawled to the foot of the bed and lifted the chart out of its slot, staring at it as she settled back against him. He tried staring at it with her, but reading printed text was hard enough. Reading doctor handwriting was a bit beyond him.

She flipped past the first page, scanning. "Wow," she said, smiling. "He even writes all those excellents and wonderfuls in his notes."

"Yeah," Derek said. "I have to sign off on all those, you know. I'm thinking for Christmas this year, maybe a thesaurus for him."

She snorted as she put the chart back. "Two more days, Derek," she assured him. "There's nothing wrong with you or Dr. Weller would have put you on antibiotics immediately. And he wouldn't have written excellent fifty times."

He smiled. "You sure pulled a one-eighty."

She kissed him again. "My hot fiancé is very, very convincing," she said against his lips. "And by hot, I mean sexy. Not feverish. And by very, very convincing, I mean I'm sure he's fine. Tired, but fine."

Not dying.

"My fiancé is hotter," he said with a smirk, only to get cut off by an unexpected rumble.

Meredith laughed. "Now, who's got the growly stomach?" She pulled the tray table over their laps. The milk, cheerios, now cold, soupy eggs, and still-glistening sausage patties waited.

"Fine," he said. "Fine, I guess I can eat cheerios." He picked up the spoon and started fumbling with the little travel box. "I'm not touching the eggs or the sausage, though. Why do they even serve that in hospitals? That's like asking for relapses."

"Derek, I hate to break it to you," she said as he poured the cheerios into the little bowl. "But most people in hospitals are not health freaks. And one meal of sausage and eggs isn't going to kill anyone. The protein is actually healthy in small doses."

"It might kill me," he said. He picked up his fork with his free hand and poked at the scrambled, yellow mess on his plate. The eggs made a liquid-squishy sound as he pushed them around. "Look at it. It's… It's…"

"Hospital food?" Meredith said, her eyes sparkling.

"Well, yeah."

"They tend to serve that in hospitals, Derek."

"They do," he replied. The salad he'd eaten on Wednesday night had been all right. It'd been his first venture back into the land of solids. The food on Thursday had been tolerable. This was… "Care to smuggle in something edible for me?"

She grinned. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" he said, eyebrows raised as he worked at the milk carton. He poured the milk into his bowl over the cheerios. "As in, maybe, I won't feed my starving, hot fiancé?"

She nodded. "Maybe."

"This is all your fault, you know," he said as he spooned his first bite.

"What?"

He swallowed and spooned another, almost regretful that the box was so small. He would be done in a few more bites. "I'm going to have cheerio breath all day," he said. "You think pastrami breath is bad?"

"That implies I'm going to be kissing you enough to care," she replied. She wore an adorable, nonchalant-but-pouty expression on her face.

"Aren't you?" he asked. He shoveled another heaping spoonful into his mouth and chewed.

"I guess I can make a sacrifice for my hot fiancé."

After another two bites, he put his spoon down into the empty bowl. A thin film of milk still covered the bottom, and a stray cheerio or two flecked the surface of the milk. He grinned at her. "Sacrificing by finding me food, or by kissing me? Because if I can pick between getting kissed and getting food, I think I'd pick getting kissed."

She leaned into him and caught his lips with hers. Her fingers brushed his scalp, just the way she'd always done before the surgery. It felt different to not feel the pull of his hair against his skin, the tickle of her nails as they sorted out the curly strands into something resembling straight and ordered. Her palm rubbed his ear, down his neck, and settled for clutching at his shoulder. She smelled like lavender. She always did, but this time, it served him like a rejuvenating fuel. The kiss wasn't like before. Before he'd been doused in pain medication and anti-epileptics and other things. Where one kiss with her was enough to set him off a diving board into a lake of desperation. But he did feel it. Everywhere. Slowly. Building. It was something that could be nursed and prodded into the fervor he used to have. Not like before. But possible.

He sighed when she finally pulled away. "Cheerios are definitely not as bad as pastrami," she commented, breathless, and he couldn't help but laugh.

He felt tired, but was able to add relaxed and warm to the list. Warm from kissing. Not warm from fever. Warm. And that was…

He tilted his head into her neck and breathed. The room started to fuzz, and he closed his eyes, blinking away the colors and the light and everything except the fact that he was tired, warm, and relaxed. She moved. A little. He heard the rustle of paper, followed by the dry crackle of a book spine being violated. Another jerk, and a hollow click and the pop-release of air followed as she uncapped her highlighter. His awareness slipped back, and the room around him became a distant, blurry thing loitering in the space behind his eyes.

"He's helping you study?" said a familiar voice, and the room snapped back into place. He blinked, trying to force himself back awake. Wake up, wake up, wake up. It was the first time one of Meredith's friends had seen him, at least while he was awake and aware of it. Someone had been running pretty good interference so far. Meredith maybe. Though he suspected someone else had been involved. Someone with a bit more pull. He swallowed, managing to grunt a little as he lifted his head back up.

Cristina stood in the doorway, her arms folded over her chest, her ankles crossed. She wore her light blue scrubs, a white undershirt, and gray cross trainers. And she looked like she didn't care one iota that Derek was lying there. Her expression was the same flat one she always seemed to wear. The one that said someone with teeth was lurking just underneath, ready to snap.

She closed the distance to the bed and plopped herself down by Derek's and Meredith's feet after shoving the tray table out of the way. The mattress gave, and she pulled her feet up and folded them under herself, Indian-style. "So, what are we studying?"

"Hey, I'm sleeping, here," Derek protested as he shifted his feet. The bed was very small.

"No, you're not," Cristina said. She leaned forward and glanced at the title of the volume Meredith was reading. "Oh, I already read that one."

Meredith looked up from her notes with a sigh as she put her highlighter in the spine. For a brief moment, she seemed relaxed and happy that Cristina was there, and he was surprised to find himself glad for that despite a low undercurrent of discomfort. Cristina had traipsed in like it was any other day. Like this was an on-call room, not a patient room. Not that he would have expected pity from Cristina. But it was refreshing to find his expectations met. She wasn't even treating him like her boss, which she never did anyway. He'd always been the bastard that'd broken Meredith. Ever since Addison had come back into the picture. It was all so blessedly normal he couldn't really bring himself to protest.

Except Meredith seemed to think it worth protesting. A tiny shiver of what he could only assume was realization racked her frame, and her eyes flared wide for a passing moment, so quickly he would have missed it if it weren't for the fact that he was looking at her already. Her gaze ticked to Cristina and back to him in a rapid expression of, "Crap!"

"Don't you have your own attending to take advantage of?" Meredith snapped, and surprisingly, that made him feel even better. Because it meant even Meredith had forgotten for a moment. And that was perfect. Just…

Perfect.

"So," Derek murmured with a low chuckle as he kissed her neck, trying to let her know everything was okay. "You do admit to taking advantage?"

"Shut up," she said, laughing. "We made up our mind that that was a tie."

"You made it up," he replied.

Cristina rolled her eyes. "Whatever," she said. "Burke and I aren't exactly on speaking terms at the moment."

"Again?" Meredith said. "Did you…"

"He's having delusions about us getting married next week," Cristina said with a shrug.

"You're not?" Derek said.

"Only if he decides to do the small one I said I wanted."

"That's really great, Cristina," Meredith said. "I mean that you stood your ground. Not that… You know… Not the delusions."

The skin around Cristina's eyes ticked, and she loosed a little, frustrated sigh. "Yeah, well."

"I'm back," said his mother as she entered the room with her tote bag, which looked considerably fuller than it had been before she'd left. She glanced at Cristina with a curious expression, and when Meredith didn't make an immediate move to introduce her to the new occupant of the room, the new occupant residing on Derek's bed, Ellen added a slightly less confident, "Hello?"

"Oh, sorry," Meredith said. "Ellen, this is my best friend, Cristina Yang. Cristina, this is Ellen Shepherd, Derek's mother."

Ellen smiled brightly. "Hello, dear. It's very nice to meet one of Meredith's friends."

"Hi," said Cristina.

"I tried to tell her I was sleeping," Derek grumbled, but he didn't mean it. Not really. It occurred to him that the friend he really wasn't looking forward to seeing was Izzie.

"And I told you, you're not sleeping. You're talking," Cristina said. She considered him for a moment. "And occasionally making McDreamy eyes at Meredith made only slightly extra dreamy and less mc by the fact that you're drugged. Please, tell me your morphine experience wasn't like Meredith's."

He turned to his mother. "She's sort of always like this."

"No," Cristina commented, "I'm usually worse. So, when are you studying neuro? I want in on that." Her beeper went off. She pulled the little black pager off her belt clip and stared at it with a perplexed expression. "Crap, I have to take this," she said as she hopped off the bed.

And then she was gone.

"Lovely girl," Ellen replied flatly, though her eyes sparkled as though she were in on a joke that nobody else was. She settled down onto the couch, and Derek leaned back against the pillows. He started to drift again.

A light knock at the door pulled him back, and he moaned softly as Abasi walked in. Irritating was making a slow crawl toward understatement as a description for all the interruptions. He rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up and greet the newest reason he wasn't sleeping. A new bandage for his scalp, a new intravenous line, and a blood draw. The worst part of it was that Meredith got up and sat down in the chair beside the bed, leaving him bereft of the feel of her against his side. He sighed as Abasi moved about, letting himself drift a little, just under the surface, awake enough to respond to questions, but trying to recoup some energy. He really just wanted to sleep.

"What's that?" his mother said, which snapped him awake.

"This is mostly just saline at this point, Mrs. Shepherd," Abasi said as he set up a new IV bag. "It keeps him hydrated. We're giving him some medication to reduce the chance of swelling as well."

"What about the fever?" Ellen said.

"No fever, now," Abasi said. "It could have been a bad read. It happens."

"A bad read?"

"Mom, I'm fine. Really," Derek said, sighing as Abasi picked up after himself, wrappers and remnants of things crinkling, and left. The news about the fever was such a heavy relief it'd taken him a moment to realize his mother, who had seemed much better when she'd walked back into his room, was descending rapidly back into the place she'd been before. The bad David is Derek is David place.

"Sarah told me a fever could mean you've got pneumonia."

"Mom, do I look like I have pneumonia?"

"What about sepsis?"

"Where did you hear about—" he began, only to cut his words short. There was no point in knowing. Ellen had gotten her hands on some literature, or she'd pumped Sarah for information. Sarah usually wilted under pressure, and Ellen was a master interrogator. She'd needed the skill with four sisters at war with a son and his best friend. Blame for broken vases and birds in shoeboxes and messes on the floor left un-swept had blasted across sides like a ball in a tennis match. He did it! No, she did! No, he did! "Never mind. That's what the blood work they're doing is for, Mom. But I doubt it."

"Why?"

"Because I'm tired, Mom," he snapped. And then he breathed, forcing himself to relax. He added in a more moderated tone, "I'm tired, but I'm not sick. I feel fine."

"You're not eating," she countered.

He gestured to the tray table. "I ate."

"One miniature bowl of cereal is not eating," she said. "You always eat breakfast."

Silence stretched into a moment that became one, two, three, four seconds. Five. He twisted the thermal blanket in his hands until they hurt. The new intravenous line ached as he clenched his fists and ground his teeth. Would you eat that? He'd almost said it. Almost. But then he'd looked at her. She blinked, pinching fat, ugly tears out. She wiped them away, and she composed herself again, but it'd been enough. Enough to make him feel weak again. And guilty for putting everyone through this. And homesick.

_Did he suffer?_

_No, Ellen. It was very quick. We found him in the supply closet. We tried to revive him, but were unsuccessful._

Derek knew enough now to know that, however brief, his father had definitely suffered. A bursting aneurysm was almost always described as the worst headache ever, coupled with nausea, vomiting, double vision, stiff neck, and other problems. His mother probably knew it was a lie as well. She'd had plenty of opportunity to glance at medical textbooks over the course of her life, what with three daughters, one son, and one… Mark. All graduating medical school.

_How could this happen? He was only thirty-eight._

_Sometimes it just does. There is no rhyme or reason._

He wanted nothing more than to get up and give her a tour of Seattle. To get up and be himself. To be the person he'd become.

_What am I going to do?_

I'm not dying, he wanted to say. I'm not. I'm fine.

He just wanted to go home and curl up. He hadn't been mothered like this since before he'd left for college, and it was painful to suddenly be in a position where his mother thought he needed it. Not even when he'd had his crash had she been this bad. Addison and Mark and all his sisters had been there all the time, and it hadn't been like this. After the doctors had finally gotten him stabilized, there hadn't been a lot to be frightened about, and his mother hadn't even managed to go to the hospital until he'd been awake, alert, and breathing on his own again. His concussion had been minor. He'd been bell-rung for a few hours, disoriented, but that had been it.

The ache of exhaustion he'd been holding at bay slowly pulsed back to life. He stared dully at the floor. The tiles spaced and multiplied as his eyes lost focus and two images bloomed from one.

Meredith stood, and the sound of her chair wobbling back into the wall on its wheels echoed after her sentence. He looked at her. She wore a determined, preparing for battle face. She brushed a loose bang away from her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Ellen, have you been to Stitches?" Meredith said.

His mother blinked and sniffed. "No."

"It's a Seattle fabric store that's supposed to be pretty good," Meredith explained as she rounded the bed and went over to the couch. "I read about it in the paper back when I was doing my knitting to stave off tequila thing. Never actually went to the store, though. You want to go?"

"But I…"

Meredith turned to him, mouthing, I love you, before adding audibly, "Derek, I'm going to take Ellen out for a few hours."

"Meredith, dear, I really don't need to—"

"You're in Seattle," Meredith said, cutting his mother off as she turned back. "I've been meaning to pick the knitting thing back up for a while, and seeing as how we're going to be stuck in here for a few days yet and studying can only carry me so far before I go insane, it seems like the perfect time. You can show me what to get. Izzie tried to teach me earlier this year, but I think I kind of sucked. She used to redo my rows at night. She thinks I didn't know. But it's all about the effort, right? And she had an ug-- Er… Nice sweater by the end, which was great. But she's not nearly as good as you are. I love the scarf you've been knitting. It's a lot less tangley than mine ever were. How do you do it?"

His mother looked lost. Derek almost couldn't help the smile threatening to overtake him as Ellen tried to piece together what Meredith had said.

"She babbles," he offered. "Isn't it cute?"

Meredith's lip twitched, but she schooled herself. "Please, Ellen?" Meredith insisted. "Studying is driving me crazy. I need something else to do."

"She's scary when she's crazy," he said. "Trust me. You want to take her."

Meredith's lip twitched again, but she somehow managed not to smile. "Yes. It's like what happens when you withdraw sleep from Mr. Flirty-But-Grouchy."

"Touché," he said.

That time she grinned.

For a moment, Ellen's gaze darted back and forth between them. Meredith. Derek. Meredith. Derek. "All right," Ellen said with a surrendering sigh.

"Great!" Meredith said. She grabbed her purse from the floor by his bed. Her keys jingled. She shifted from foot to foot, looking adorable in her ratty knit pants and shirt, and he couldn't help but smile as she frowned, and the tip of her tongue appeared as she considered the contents of her purse with the seriousness of a surgeon with an open body cavity. She stuck her hand deep into the depths, rifled around, and, finally satisfied, she turned and guided his mother out the door before Ellen had a chance to change her mind.

Meredith lingered in the doorframe, peering back at him as her lithe fingers clutched at the molding. "You want anything?" she asked simply.

"No," he replied. "Thank you."

She shrugged and smiled. "I owe you a shower later. Get some sleep."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, winking.

The door shut softly behind her. Sleep. He hoped he could do that.

He closed his eyes, realizing he was alone, really alone for the first time in days. The door between him and the rest of the world muted the sounds that had been pelting him all morning. The clacks of computer keyboards. Nurses chatting. People moving. Wheeling stretchers. All a subtle hum. He lowered his bed, sighing gratefully as his body flattened out. He hadn't realized how much sitting up had been chipping away at him until he relaxed, until, when he slit his eyes open, he saw only the blur of the ceiling tiles. Even if he couldn't sleep, just lying flat and quiet relieved the tension thrumming deep within every sinew and muscle. He sighed once. Twice. Again.

Meredith. Meredith had just run interference for him with his mother. Meredith, who didn't do families. Meredith, who, according to her, sucked at the sick thing, had just gifted him with a precious moment of peace. And that was…

His breaths began to even out and the room around him slipped into the blur behind his eyes. He arrived in his hovering place. Not quite sleep, but so, so close. If only he could get the rest of the way there. To sleep and dreaming. If only. If…

The seconds lengthened, and, finally, drought drove his body to the well. The hovering place became nothing, and Derek Shepherd slept.

He woke up alone for the first time in three mornings.

The muted sounds from before had become a roar again, and he noticed that his door had been left open. Abasi, perhaps. His tray of uneaten food was gone. He tried to blink the cobwebs away and only halfway succeeded as he swallowed, attempting to erase the pasty feeling that had overtaken his mouth, which in turn brought his gaze down to the floor as he debated a bathroom trip. When he closed his eyes, he could see his toothbrush sitting on the back of the sink by the faucet in a plastic cup. He could taste the gritty mint of his toothpaste. That would be nice. His razor was there, too. He couldn't take a shower by himself, but he could at least do some amount of self-maintenance. He sniffed and raised his hand to rub the bridge of his nose.

He missed Meredith already. They had always had busy schedules, sometimes going for days with barely more than five minutes of shared time, but over the course of the past two weeks, he'd grown used to having her around all the time. The sound of her breathing filled the quiet spaces between words. The scent of her hair always lingered on the tip of his awareness like the scent of flame remembered in a fireplace. One spark, and it flared again, replacing memory with now. Except she'd left, and it was gone.

This is what it would be like at home, too, he realized. She would have to work, and he would have to stay at home and rest. They wouldn't have shared moments in hallways and corners to supplement the evenings she wasn't working overnight. He'd never told her he changed his shifts to match hers when he could. But this wasn't something he could shift around.

He sensed eyes on him before he became truly aware of the person standing in the doorway.

"Are you…" George whispered, shifting back and forth on his feet as he committed to entering the room, reneged, committed, and reneged again in a motion that made him look like he was a hockey player trying to feint with a puck. "You're not awake," George decided, and he managed to turn on his heels and spring forward a step in hasty retreat before Derek could sigh and collect himself.

"I'm awake, O'Malley," he said.

George turned around, and his eyes widened. He looked profoundly guilty, like he'd gotten caught sneaking a peek into an OR he'd been banned from, or perhaps something more mundane and clichéd, like stealing cookies from the jar.

"Dr. Shepherd," George said, surprised. And then he stood there. A foot inside the doorframe. Not moving.

Derek closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recoup. George was staring at him like lots of family did with patients, when somebody was sick and they didn't know how to react. Comfort? Give space? People were unpredictable. Some needed company when they were sick. They needed to be coddled and shown that they were loved. Some needed to be left alone to heal in peace. Derek was somewhere in the middle. He loved the company of his family. Usually. That day excluded. But he hated being coddled. And he hated being stared at with anything remotely akin to pity. Particularly by those who were supposed to respect him. George couldn't seem to make a solid judgment on what was expected, and so he stood there. Silent.

"Did you want something?" Derek prodded as he forced his eyelids back up.

George made a strange, jerky gesture with his hands. "Cristina said. Well," he waffled, and then his gaze hardened. "Dr. Shepherd, Broca's aphasia indicates damage to the frontal lobe, right?" he added, almost quickly enough that Derek couldn't follow the syllables.

Derek blinked, trying to piece it together. In the several seconds of silence that followed while Derek thought, George got twitchier and twitchier. A pinkish shade blotched his cheeks, and he looked like he wanted to bolt.

"Yes," Derek decided.

George immediately relaxed. "Thanks!" he said. And then he was gone from the doorway before Derek could reply. Far, far down the hall, his strong, happy voice said, "Told you it was the frontal lobe!" to an unknown recipient.

Derek smiled. That had been… interesting. It seemed Cristina had leaked him as a potential study source. A study source that would be a captive audience. An attending who wasn't busy and didn't have constant demands on him to be somewhere else. Was that okay? Yes. Yes, that was okay. It was nice. Nice to be able to be superior at something. Knowledge. He still had that. It took longer to think, and it was a bit draining, but all the pieces were still there for him to work with. And if Meredith's friends were busy asking him for help with the exam, they weren't busy asking him about him, weren't busy staring at him for any other reason than awaiting an answer.

He forced himself to get up. The walk up and down the hall was slow, but as he'd shuffled back from the bathroom, he'd decided he had enough energy. Barely. And so he'd made himself move. Made himself walk down to the nurses' station and back. Several smiling faces greeted him as he moved, and he did his best to be cheerful back, because he was fine. He was fine. He didn't have a fever. And he could walk on his own. Two more days, and he would be going home. Things were mostly good. He forced himself to smile back at the well-wishers until he couldn't manage moving and being cheerful at the same time.

When he lumbered across the threshold to his room, he moved to shut the door behind him, only to pause. He stared at the hand he'd wrapped around the dull silver knob. The chill of the metal sank into his skin, and he sighed, considering for several moments before he heaved a sigh and left the door open. He walked two more steps before turning back to look at it. Really? Really leave it open? Yes, really. This was a teaching hospital. Might as well leave the interns with the opportunity to let him do his damned job and teach.

He tried to tell himself that was all it was.

By the time he sank back down onto the bed and closed his eyes, he felt like a hypocritical, petulant child. He'd wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Now, he was alone. He should be in blissful slumber. Sleeping without being watched was nice. But it certainly wasn't blissful. Alone versus not being prodded were two different things.

He laughed softly as he suddenly thought of Lindsey and Annie. He wondered how they were doing on the Space Needle. Stewart had a problem with heights, and Derek could just imagine the girls as they bounced closer and closer to the railings while Stewart stood pressed back against the entrance, his tall, sticky frame flattened up against the wall farthest from the edge. But Stewart would go, and he would fake a smile, and he would stay there, flattened against the wall anyway. Because Sarah, Annie, and Lindsey all wanted to go, and they were Stewart's family.

Annie would be very brave. She'd probably beg Sarah to hold her up to see through the viewfinders. Lindsey would point out at Mount Rainier, if it was visible through the fog, and she'd gasp in wonder. The East Coast had hills for mountains, at best. A big, craggy, snow-capped peak would be new and exciting.

He opened his eyes and sighed. Tired. Definitely. But he wasn't quite ready to sleep again yet. The only thing Meredith had packed for him was his iPod, but the thought of music right then was a little grating. The relative quiet was nice.

Alex strode in, a chart straddled between his arm and his hip, looking pure jock as he came to a stop. "Hey, man," he said without precursor. "If I had a patient with a suspected hematoma, would it be more appropriate to order a CT over an MRI if I could only do one?"

"How recent was the head trauma?" Derek said.

Alex cocked an eyebrow, looking perpelxed. "Why?"

"CTs are better at showing fresh blood," Derek explained. "MRIs are better for older clots. MRIs are better for detecting minute damage. They're more detailed than CTs."

Alex nodded. "Okay," he said. "So, if it was a mugging victim who'd gotten hit with a bat in the last hour or two, a CT would be better?"

"Yes," Derek replied. "At least for making an initial diagnosis."

"Thanks, man," Alex said. "Spending half a year on gynie wasn't the best for a well-rounded learning experience. I'm hurting on the brain stuff."

"Sure," Derek said, smiling.

When Alex left, Derek blinked and sank back down into the pillows. Okay. Okay, now, he was ready to sleep. That had sucked the remainder of his staying power away from him. But he'd managed. And it felt… It actually felt really good. Good to be doing medicine, even if he wasn't actually doing it.

"He's sleeping," a soft voice whispered from somewhere to the left. "Don't ask him."

He twitched, for a moment not even sure what had woken him up. He'd only closed his eyes for a moment. And now there were people in his room. People. How did? What time… What. When had he fallen asleep? The hallway sounds had dulled. All he could hear was the people. In his room.

"Izzie, he has weeks to sleep after he goes home," hissed another woman from the right. "He'll be fine. We've got a test in a week that will decide our careers."

Izzie and Cristina, he realized as the world inside his room focused like a picture under a microscope. Meredith's chair squeak, squeak, squeaked to his left. Except he knew without looking that Meredith wasn't there. Her absence had become almost as profound to him as her presence. And she never squeaked her chair or fidgeted. At least she hadn't been the past few days. The warm, faint scent of grease curled around his nose. The wet, smacking sounds of chewing littered passing moments. Pages flipped. Breathing. Fabric rustling. Every noise scraped against his eardrums, driving his brain further from its dreaming, dark place.

"I'm surprised you're even entertaining the thought of failing," George said, forward and to the right.

"Yeah, and speaking of failing, who failed to get the flashcards from his wife?" Cristina countered.

"I didn't ask," George said.

"Why?" Cristina said.

"I didn't ask, okay?" George replied.

"You know," Alex said, also somewhere to the left, "It's almost not so bad that really old guy kicked it, now."

"Alex, that's mean," Izzie replied.

"What?" Alex said. "It's quiet in here, at least."

"It's quiet because he's sleeping," Izzie said. "Leave him be."

He slit his eyes open, letting the blur greet his tired pupils before blinking and letting himself absorb the full scene. His door had been shut. Izzie sat in the chair Meredith had been using. She whirled the chair back and forth at an uneven, lackadaisical rhythm while she read from a book folded open against her thighs and chewed absently on an apple. Cristina lay on her back, knees bent up over the arm of the loveseat, hands clasped behind her head as she pondered the small paperback that blocked her gaze from contemplating the ceiling. Alex leaned against the windowsill, picking at a tray of food he'd brought, and George balanced precariously on a chair bent backward onto its rear feet, propped up by his legs against the wall.

"What's going on?" Derek muttered, swallowing thickly as he brought his gaze up to the ceiling and let the tiles space.

Izzie jerked at the noise and leaned forward with wide eyes. "See?" she said as she brought her gaze up to meet the glares of the other perpetrators, accusation creasing her flawless face. "You woke him!" she hissed. When she looked back at Derek, she smiled brightly, animatedly. "Hi, Dr. Shepherd," she said. "We're studying."

"I can see that…" he replied.

"Meredith's still out," Izzie added.

"I can see that, too," he said.

"We're sorry for waking you," she said as she stood up. "We'll g—"

Cristina flopped her book down on the sofa back and interrupted before Izzie could finish. "A subarachnoid hemorrhage occurs outside the brain and an intracerebral hemorrhage occurs inside the brain," she said.

He sighed and drew his hands up to his face, trying to rub the sleep away. When he'd left his door open, he hadn't expected them to flock like this. "Yes," he said. "It's easier to remember if you dissect the meaning of the words."

"Do you need anything?" Izzie asked, brown eyes wide and concerned.

He covered his eyes with his hand and swallowed again. He was fine, he wanted to snap. He was perfectly fine, and he didn't need anything. Except he wasn't exactly fine, and now, because of his own eagerness to do something that made him feel empowered again, he'd gotten himself stuck in a situation where four of his subordinates were in his room, staring at him while he woke up from fatigue that was debilitating enough that he couldn't even remember trying to fall asleep that time. It'd just happened. Definitely not strong. But… These were Meredith's friends. Not just his subordinates. And. Well…

He sighed. "Just give me a minute to wake up."

Cristina relinquished her seat on the couch, pushed the back of one of the unoccupied chairs toward the bed railing to his right, and slouched down onto the seat, cradling her chin against what was supposed to be the back. Her eyes were wide with anticipation, and she looked like she wanted to launch into a litany of questions. She'd definitely found her immobile study source, he thought. He wondered if Burke humored her at home, or if this was her first opportunity to study with someone who'd actually been through the test before.

He pushed the controls that brought the bed into a sitting position. Wake up. Wake up, wake up, wake up. For some reason, his body wasn't really listening. Aside from Cristina, whose attention had nothing to do with him woefully underperforming as his usual able self, they seemed blasé about giving him some time. Alex shrugged and returned to his reading. George tested the balance limits of his chair, not even turning around yet to face the bed. Only Izzie seemed to care about the specific situation, but her concern wasn't… overwhelming. Not like his mother. More like Meredith. Aware that he was struggling, but not wanting to make him feel like he was in the spotlight. She munched on her apple and went back to her book as well.

He could deal with this. He could. It was only four interns. He dealt with everyone seeing him every time he ventured out of his room. This was no different. Just… Wake up. They didn't care that he wasn't feeling that well, at least not in the sense that they were ready to fall over themselves with sympathy. They just wanted help studying for their exams. And he could do that. Derek Shepherd could do that if he could wake up and not wallow.

He could.

Izzie stood. Derek didn't pay much attention to her. The faucet in the bathroom ran. His tray table appeared with some water, and she sat back down without comment. Her eyes went back to her book, as if she hadn't just gotten up.

"Thank you," he said dully. Three sips, and he was feeling better. Not quite awake, but at least sentient. And he could do this. No wallowing.

"Okay, Cristina, go ahead," he grumbled.

He'd barely finished his last syllable before she launched into her first point. "An ischemic stroke is the most common type of stroke," she said.

He nodded. "Yes."

"And that's when a clot blocks an artery leading to the brain," Cristina said, a question but not really a question. Because Cristina Yang knew. Cristina Yang knew the right answer almost as resolutely as Derek Shepherd was fine.

His lip twitched as a smile threatened to overtake him. "Yes."

"And it doesn't involve a ruptured anything?" she said.

"Right," he replied. The smile he'd smothered a few moments before escaped when he realized he had the room enraptured with very little effort. George had turned around. Alex and Izzie and George were all watching and listening. Izzie's pen was a storm against her notepad.

"What's a common cause of subarachnoid and intracerebral hemorrhages?" he asked, falling into his teacher role almost as a habit.

"Oh, oh," George exclaimed like a kid at dodge ball. Pick me. Pick me. Pick me.

"Dude, don't raise your hand, that's pathetic," Alex said, his lip curled in annoyance.

"It's polite," George said before turning back to Derek. "Ruptured aneurysms?"

"Yes," Derek said. "How do we treat those?"

"Clip the base of the aneurysm," Alex said.

As the momentum of the discussion gathered, the four of them grew more animated and enthusiastic. They split off into makeshift teams while he lobbed questions at them, lobbed them like a geriatric softball coach with arthritis and a busted hip, but he did his best. It took him longer. To formulate intelligent questions. Longer than it would have before the surgery. But they used the downtime between questions to talk smack to each other, and if they noticed he was really racking himself to think straight, they didn't let on. He asked them whatever questions he could think of, from the inanely easy to the more difficult to the esoteric. Anything he could think of from the brain to the spine and all the nerves between. The more he woke up, the more into the mindset of attending turned game show host he forced himself, the easier things became. And it really was helpful. Being involved. Medicine. He wasn't cutting, but he was helping create futures for people who would be cutting.

A soft knock rapped on his door before it opened. "What is this," Mark said as he entered. "The intern brigade?"

"Mark," Derek said.

"Hey, Dr. Sloane," said Izzie. Alex's jaw worked, but he said nothing. Cristina looked neutral, and George seemed more interested in checking the scorecard than greeting his boss.

Mark nodded. "Derek." He looked around.

"They're studying," Derek said.

"Aren't they supposed to be working?" Mark said.

"Dr. Bailey told us to study when we didn't have any patients to take care of," George said.

"Yeah, well," Mark said as he sat down on the couch. "I just finished a rhinoplasty on one of the board members. Why don't you all go make sure she has everything she needs? Room 642."

"But…" Izzie began.

"You heard me," Mark snapped. "Scram."

The crowd of interns left, but not without pouting. Mark glared at them, particularly at Alex.

"We'll win next time," George commented as he trudged out.

"Not unless you're on my team," Cristina said.

Izzie rolled her eyes, turning to peer back into the room just as she stepped out into the hallway. "Dr. Shepherd, can we come back?"

He smiled. "Not like I'm going anywhere," he said.

They shuffled out of view, and the smile slipped from Derek's face. "Sucking up to the board?" Derek said as he turned back to Mark. "You really think you have a shot at Chief, Mark?"

Mark regarded him silently for an eternity of passing moments. The skin around his eyes twitched, and his temples and jaw line moved subtly as he clenched his muscles. "I'm smart, Derek," he said.

"Debatable," Derek replied.

"I got through college and med school. I am the best at what I do. I'm smart," he said.

Mark stood and began to pace.

"Somehow, I don't think this was a social visit," Derek commented as he pushed the covers back. He was awake. And Mark was there. He slid his feet over the side of the bed and stood. For a moment, just like every other moment when he dared to stand, things were perfect, and then gravity and fatigue sank into his bones and muscles. It seemed like he'd gained a hundred pounds, and everything seemed larger. He didn't need to take five steps to get out of the room. He needed to take five huge steps. He didn't need to take a breath to steady himself. He needed to take a huge breath. The hallway wasn't long. It was an infinite sea of tiles and cracks. He took two steps toward the door.

Mark raised an eyebrow, but he didn't comment.

"I'm walking," Derek said.

"I didn't say a word," Mark replied as he moved to follow.

"What do you want?" Derek asked as he pushed himself into the hallway, dragging the IV pole after him.

"I want to talk," Mark replied.

"Well?"

Mark glanced around. "Derek, if you want to walk to prove to me or you or someone that you're fine, great. But I'm not having this chat in the hallway."

Derek paused, gripping the pole so hard it hurt. Mark stared him down, unblinking. It was his determination face. He wore it whenever he wanted something and was planning on getting it. Women who were more a challenge than an object of desire. Going home to his family and leaving unscathed. Graduating. Telling Derek when he was being an ass. Wedging himself between Derek and his MRI films.

They were going to talk, whether Derek wanted it or not. Derek sighed as the last of the elation from the makeshift study session faded. "Where then?"

Mark shrugged. "My office. Yours. Your room. I really don't care. But not in the hallway."

Derek closed his eyes. His office was a distant Hawaii to his hospital room's Maine. But he'd done it. Yesterday. Done at least that distance by the time he had been through moving. He could. He'd had some sleep. He was… He could. He turned and started walking toward the elevator. He didn't want to go back to his room and lie in a bed while Mark reamed him for whatever he'd decided was important enough to talk about.

Mark kept pace with him, quiet, not pushing, and it was frustrating. Frustrating to not be able to break into a purposeful stride and go, go, go like he did when he was in a hurry, on his way to a critical patient. The farther he went, the shorter his strides became, and it was frustrating. The whole thing.

Frustrating.

When he stepped foot into the office wing, he had to stop and rest against the wall for a moment before he could make his legs move again. Mark waited on the opposite side of the hall, muscles bulging from his crossed arms, and Derek felt weak again. Derek hated that Mark made him weak. But Derek didn't speak. Didn't say a word. And Mark waited, neither giving nor taking an inch.

Stale, unused air hugged the corners and the spaces between in Derek's office. He hadn't been there in two weeks. Everything sat undisturbed. Medical journals and papers crammed the back wall of shelving. His medical degree hung in a frame on the wall to the right, along with all his certifications. The stack of pending paperwork he'd left for his first day back sat over a foot high on the right corner his desk, sitting ominous and unavoidable in his inbox. His favorite gel pen sat in the dipping center of the stack. A thin film of dust gripped his computer monitor, but the wood surface of his desk shone and smelled faintly of lemon, compliments of Seattle Grace's excellent janitorial staff. Derek Shepherd, Head of Neurosurgery, the name placard on his desk read, claiming it for him in his absence. Beyond that, nothing personal touched the room. No photos. Nothing. Though, perhaps a picture of Meredith was warranted, now. But that could wait.

"You still suck at paperwork," Mark said. He sat down in one of the consult chairs.

"Yeah," Derek replied as he pushed around his desk and sank with a heaving breath into his chair. His limbs shook, and he couldn't stop them. He leaned back, sucking down the stale air as fast as he could force his lungs to work. As his breathing slowed, tiredness crept behind his eyes, demanding payment for the work he'd just done, but he pushed it away. He wasn't going to sleep now. He didn't need sleep.

"So, what do you want," Derek said, not really a question, not really a demand, just surrender, as he recollected the bits of oxygen and coherency he'd lost, though he felt like pieces were missing anyway. Pieces that made him whole. He didn't lean forward because he was afraid if he put his head down into his hands, he might fall off into a doze. And he didn't want that. Not in front of Mark.

"I am smart," Mark said. His gaze wandered to the wall that screamed about Derek's achievements. "I saw you looking at all those. I have those, too. I graduated next in line behind you, you know. Shepherd and Sloane are close."

Mount Sinai's graduating class that year had been 135 strong. They'd filled one of the smaller auditoriums and listened to the long, encouraging, optimistic speech of Dr. Gretsky. The air had been cold, or perhaps it had been the nerves thrumming quietly underneath his skin. Derek remembered sitting like a stone, barely able to swallow. The beginning of the rest of his life. Mark had sat next to his right, just as still as Derek, his determination face holding his expression steady, until the master of ceremonies had returned to the podium as Dr. Gretsky had relinquished it, commanding in a deep, rich voice, _Will the class of 1991 please stand?_

They'd both stood, though Mark's stoic demeanor had broken for a set of moments. Mark had been more focused on the audience than the stage. He'd kept shifting to the left, peering at the crowd behind them out of the corner of his eye. The skin around his temples had twitched as he'd clenched his jaw. The master of ceremonies had started calling name after name, eventually drawing Mark's focus away from the audience. The steady thump of marching feet had rumbled over the reverent silence between syllables.

_Don't forget, you shake with your right hand, take your diploma with your left hand._

_Don't make me trip you, man._

_You're the one who screwed up the rehearsal._

_Shut up and walk, you ass._

_See you on the other side, Mark._

_Just think. In a few years, I'll finally be able to fix your nose._

Derek remembered the warm feel of the Dean's hand sliding against his as he had shaken it. The cool feel of the decorative canister tied with a bow he'd received. The buzz of excitement that had seemed to vibrate in the air like the hum of a thousand bees. And he remembered the feeling of elation as he had retaken his seat moments before Mark.

The applause at the end had been deafening. His mother, his four sisters, Rob, and John had all been there, contributing to the thunder. Sarah had pinched her index and middle fingers against her lips and let out a shrill whistle.

The other side.

_We kick ass_, Mark had said.

_We do_, Derek had agreed.

"I know," Derek said as he forced himself back into the present. "You're smart, Mark. You're a great surgeon. I've never said differently. Is that what you want to hear from me?"

Mark regarded him for a moment. Something behind his gaze shifted and snapped.

"No," Mark said, his voice a low, dangerous growl at first. "It doesn't matter what you say. You and your family constantly make me feel like a fucking moron. Dumb, emotionally stunted Mark. Always screwing around. Never serious."

"Mark…"

Mark ignored him. "But I never cared," he said. "I never cared before, because you gave me something. You gave me… Remember when you always used to ask about my parents? Back in grade school. You saw them maybe four times, and they were usually fighting."

"Mark," Derek said, unable to stop himself from sighing.

"Shut up, man," Mark snapped as he launched forward from his seat like a snarling cat and gripped the edges of Derek's desk. "It's my turn. You've yelled and snapped. Let me talk. Please. If you want me to leave, tell me to leave, but don't just sit there pulling your petulant, passive-aggressive bullshit like always."

"Okay," Derek said. "Okay, Mark."

"Will you please try and listen?"

"Mark, I've always—"

"Not lately."

"I'll grant you that," Derek replied.

"Just give me a chance to talk, Derek," Mark said. "That's all I'm asking for."

Derek closed his eyes and breathed, trying to ignore the fact that it immediately sent the room in a lumbering, backward stumble from his awareness, like a creeping black mold was overtaking his consciousness. This was his last chance from the look of it. The last chance to back out. To say he was too tired to deal with this. To say he wasn't ever interested in giving Mark the time of day again. To say… something. Anything.

But…

Maybe. Maybe this would be the time. Derek swallowed thickly, realizing he was doing it again. Falling back onto hope. Mark rarely initiated serious discussions like this. Mark was not a talker, relying on sarcasm and short, clipped honesty to get him through the day. And the fact that Mark was pushing, really pushing…

Hope.

"All right," Derek said as he forced himself to open his eyes, and the advancing fuzz began to recede, though, not all the way. He tried not to consider how he was ever going to get back from his office to his hospital room, because there was no chance in hell he was letting Mark push him around in a fucking wheelchair. Not ever. And he didn't think he'd be able to get up for a while.

Mark relaxed back into his seat, and for a moment, he looked perplexed, as if he'd expected Derek to protest and make him leave, not to give in. He hunched forward, pushing his elbows into his knees as he swept his hand down the line of his beard and heaved a breath. When he looked up, resolve had replaced uncertainty.

"I never had what you had, Derek," Mark began. "For as long as you've known me, you've had Mom. And you had your father. You've had birthdays and Christmases and Thanksgivings and reunions and support. When you disappeared for a year, your mother called you and tried to knock some fucking sense through your thick skull and get you to come home. Do you know how long it's been since I've even spoken to my mother, Derek?"

_Hey, Mom… Mark. It's Mark. Mark Sloane. Mark, Mom. _

Mark had slammed the phone back onto the receiver, teeth gritted. His eyes had watered, and he'd blinked once, twice.

_Drunk, _he'd said, his face a flat, stoic wasteland for a long, moment barren of any feeling, and then a smile had transformed him into something far from stoic._ We're doctors now, you know. We should go get drunk, too._

"Graduation night after the family dinner," Derek said. "You called her to tell her you were officially a doctor. I was there, Mark. You asked me to be there."

"Yeah," Mark said, a wry laugh stuttering through his large frame, "And when she answered the phone she was so drunk she didn't know who the hell I was."

Derek smiled. "Then we went out and got dunk together."

"We did," Mark said. "One of the few times I've seen you get totally pissed. You met Addison that night."

Addison had bought him a double scotch to catch his eye. He vaguely remembered the night. He'd been really, really drunk. She'd smiled, said she was graduating in the class of 1992. She'd congratulated him. They'd danced, laughed at stupid things only drunk people laughed at. Nothing had happened. Not that night. They'd developed a slowly deepening friendship that hadn't become anything else until he'd been a second year resident. Something had shifted -- he still didn't know what -- and then they'd been more than friends. Dating. Moved in together. They'd just gotten engaged when he'd had his crash.

"I did," he said. "And you met…"

Mark shrugged. "Janet. Or Janice. Hell. I don't know, Derek," he said. "That wasn't the point. The point was that that was almost fourteen years ago. And my father. It's been closer to nineteen with him. "

Mark had stopped into his house to pick some things up over Christmas vacation. Derek had gone with him as an extra hand. They'd moved about five boxes of junk, all of which would be going back to the dorm rooms when they returned at the end of break.

_I'm staying at the Shepherds' this year_, Mark had said as they'd wandered into the huge, spotless kitchen, surprised at not having found it empty of life.

_Who're they?_ Mark's dad had asked, not looking up from his newspaper.

Mark hadn't even bothered to introduce Derek. He'd tossed Derek a beer from the fridge, and they'd left the room.

"I remember that, too," Derek said.

"My point is, yeah, Derek. Your family took me in. Hell, every Christmas after that one with my father, when I went home for the holidays it was to your mother's spare bedroom. You have so much. You have so…" Mark's voice trailed away as he got lost in a memory that made him flinch, just a little tick of his head. For a moment, Mark wasn't in the room at all. Then he returned, and personality filled the pools of his pupils again. "So, yeah," he said. "Maybe I am a little bit in love with it. What you have. It's hard not to be. I'm so grateful that you and your family took me in. You're the only family I've ever known. What I had at my house when I was a kid? That wasn't a family. It was a drunk woman, a man who was never there, and me."

"You're not a stray puppy, Mark," Derek replied. "We didn't take you in. You were my friend."

Mark sighed, leaning forward. "Derek, man," he said. "I know you think I fixate on your life. I'm not stupid. I do listen. But, I swear to you. I swear. What I did with Addison had nothing to do with wanting to take something away from you. I fell in love with her. I handled it like shit, and I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry I wrecked what was left of your marriage. But I love her. Maybe not like you love Meredith. That's a fairytale, man. But I certainly loved Addison more than you ever did. I didn't do it to steal. I swear I didn't."

Derek pulled his fingers down over his eyes, pinching his nose, his chin, before he dragged them away. He sighed.

"Then why did you do it again with Meredith?" he asked in a careful, flat tone.

"Derek, I had no idea who she was."

"Yes," Derek said, "You did."

"What are you talking about?" Mark asked. "She caught my eye, we exchanged all of four sentences, and then you broke my face."

The bar had been a blast of warmth and colored light as he'd walked in from the chill. The smell of alcohol and peanuts and sweat had mingled with the cloud of chatter. He'd looked to the left, to the right, his eyes had fallen on her, and his world had stopped. Just like always. One moment, the bar had been full of people, full of voices and warmth and life, and the next, the bar had been full of her, and they'd been alone.

_Hi. I'm Derek Shepherd._

_What are you doing?_

She'd thought he hadn't been serious. She'd laughed. He'd begged. He'd begged her for another shot. All he'd cared about in the room had been her, but in the split second before he'd caught sight of her standing at the bar, wearing a little white shirt and a jacket, he'd caught Mark's profile in the shadow by the payphone.

"When I went camping," Derek said. "To take some space."

"Oh," Mark said. His eyes widened, and he sank into his chair.

"Yeah, oh."

It hadn't occurred to Derek when he'd walked into the bar to care that Mark was in the shadows making phone calls. Mark drank. A lot. The bar was a hotspot for doctors getting off their shifts. Except Seattle Grace was the bloodiest battleground of gossipmongers he'd ever experienced. A whisper here and a giggle there, and it hadn't taken Derek very long to connect the dots.

"You told me we weren't friends," Mark said. "Addison was treating me like a bike she road and got tired of. She…"

"Revenge then?" Derek asked, his voice a low murmur.

"Meredith is the only person in this hospital who doesn't judge me," Mark replied.

"I never judged you, Mark," Derek said. "Not until that night. You don't get to be just Mark anymore. My sisters might not get it, but I saw you. They might think it's cute, but I saw you. I walked in on you fucking my wife, Mark. She threw back her head and called your name while you finished her on my favorite sheets, Mark. On my bed. What the hell was I supposed to do with that? I couldn't sleep for weeks. I couldn't… What…" He stopped. He had to breathe. And he couldn't… He leaned forward, pinching his nose, swallowing back nausea. His heart throbbed like a jackhammer

"I'm sorry, man. I am," Mark said. "I didn't want to ruin your marriage."

"It's not about the fucking marriage, Mark," Derek snapped. "That marriage was a sham of what marriage is supposed to be by the end."

Mark blinked. "Then what—"

Derek slammed his hand down on the desk and stood despite the warnings his body was giving him. No, no, no. Stop it. Sit back down before you fall. His legs trembled. "I want you to be sorry, Mark," he exclaimed. "I want you to be sorry for taking everything I've ever given to you and fucking it all away like it didn't matter at all. You were my brother, Mark. I trusted you. And you broke everything."

Mark launched off his seat, his face slipping into a deep shade of red. "Jesus Christ," he yelled as he flung the chair back and started to pace in the limited space he was given. "You and your fucking rules. You think I should have pulled you aside and explained that I desperately wanted your wife?"

"Did it even occur to you to try?" Derek asked.

"Oh, come off it, and smell the reality. You would have played the same wounded, passive-aggressive bastard card you've been playing since you found me on top of her," Mark belted. "Anything that makes you a failure is unacceptable. And your marriage being a wasteland is no small failure, Derek. I know how you think."

Derek wanted to shake him, wanted to launch across the room and drop him to the floor and just… Hit. Scream. It wasn't true. He would have at least listened. He would have… Or it really was just an irresolvable issue that Mark couldn't have handled at all without messing it up, a small, sliver of doubt whispered.

Derek clutched at the desk, trying desperately to stay upright. "It was a failure," he said, swallowing. The room wavered, and his head started to hint at a headache. Sit down. Just sit. He hung onto the desk like it was the last thing between him and a stumble off a cliff. "I did fail. But I'm… I would have…"

"Yeah, Derek. You failed. And it took you how long to admit it? And how many people did you dick around before you figured it out? Admit it, Derek. Me telling you beforehand about Addison? Nothing would have changed."

Mark stopped pacing for a moment, breathing hard. His eyes were red, his whole demeanor distraught. He wiped his hands across his cheeks, though they were dry, and sniffed as he recovered himself.

"I tried to get you to pay more attention to her," Mark said quietly. "I just wanted her to be happy."

_You didn't even get her a card._

Derek finally let himself fall back into his seat. He couldn't do this anymore. "You did," he said.

"The night it happened, I didn't plan it, Derek," Mark said. He sat back in his chair, bringing him eyelevel again. "I never… It wasn't an accident. It'd be stupid to call it that. But… She was… She kissed me. And I…"

"Your world spun around," Derek said, a wry smile pulling at his lips.

"Yeah," Mark replied. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, clasping his hands. "I can't apologize, Derek. You can't apologize for some things. Saying sorry is a Hallmark piece of crap completely unsuitable for what I did. But I am sorry, Derek. I always have been. I thought…"

"I'm not a fucking mind reader, Mark."

"Yeah, well, neither am I," Mark replied.

Silence overtook the space between them. Derek felt sick, but it wasn't the lack of resolution anymore. It was everything. He sighed. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands, no longer caring that the motion of it urged him to sleep, sleep, sleep.

Mark cleared his throat. "Well, that was… That was what I wanted to say. I'm… I'll leave you alone, now," he said as he shoved his chair back and stood. He turned to leave.

"Our old office has a bunch of new names on it," Derek muttered into his hands.

Mark turned back. "You stopped by?" he asked, his eyebrow raised.

"Yeah," Derek said. The room was a blur when he leaned back. He watched as Mark slowly took his seat again. "Meredith wanted to see it. I… It was weird. Going back."

"What else did you take her to see?"

Derek shrugged. "We honestly didn't do much. Just Katz's Deli, ring shopping, and Times Square. One day isn't enough for Manhattan."

"What did…," Mark began, his look curious until his features melted into a smirk. "Oh. I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

Derek closed his eyes. "Mark," he said softly, "Please, don't hit on her anymore. Even if it's just a game to you. It's not to me."

"She wouldn't cheat, Derek," Mark replied.

"I know," Derek said. "That doesn't make it okay for you to do it."

"I won't," Mark said. "I'm sorry, man. I am."

The tension sloughed off like an orange peel, leaving Derek shaky, spent, and shutting down. He leaned back into the chair and sighed as fatigue sunk into every pore, every crevice, every space between his very slow thoughts. The room started to fall away from him. Mark shifted in his chair. The wheels rumbled across the floor. Derek watched listlessly as the blur of Mark's frame moved.

"You know," Mark said, "If you hadn't insisted on walking yourself into the ground, you wouldn't be on shutdown sequence right now."

"I was fine until you made me yell," Derek replied, barely.

"Right."

"Really," Derek replied, though he wasn't certain he finished the word before he fell into the subtle hum of a doze, and then deeper still. This had been the time, after all. Derek remembered hearing a brief shuffle of movement as Mark left the office for a minute, only to come back with a stack of paperwork. He collapsed into the chair and started jotting notes on his charts. After that, nothing.


	46. Chapter 44

**Author's Notes: This is a big Derek part, even though he's not in it at all. I had a lot of fun finally bringing everything full circle. I hope you enjoy!  
**

* * *

Crap.

The situation didn't really sink in until Meredith found herself pulling her seatbelt across her lap and stuffing her keys in the ignition. Ellen settled into the passenger side of the vehicle, silent, her red-striped tote bag on the floor by her feet, her small leather purse clutched in her hands. The car rumbled to life, and Meredith sat there, feeling the vibrations of the engine more than hearing them. Her SUV was back at the house. She'd driven Derek to his appointment with Dr. Weller in his black Lexus because the ride was smoother.

And that sounded vaguely naughty.

And Ellen was sitting in the passenger side of the car, silent. Had she mentioned the silent part? No? Silent. Definitely silent.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

She'd seen how growly Derek had been getting the more his mother had needled, and she hadn't really thought about what the implications would be of intervention. She'd just reacted. Now, Derek was alone. And Meredith was alone with Derek's mother. Ellen. Who she hadn't ever really been alone with except in moments of extreme peril and badness, thus precluding the need for serious discussion beyond the standard platitudes. Which hadn't made for excellent conversation.

"Do you want the radio on, or something?" Meredith asked as she started fumbling with the dial, nerves making her fingers shake. She'd run interference with Derek's mother. Why had she done that? She didn't do that. Moms were Meredith kryptonite. She babbled onward, unable to stop herself, "Because Derek likes to have the radio on for the noise, and maybe, I don't know. Is that hereditary? It seems like it would be. Liking or disliking noise should totally be a gene thing. He keeps it on the stupidest station ever, though. Do you like The Clash, too?"

Ellen blinked as if she'd been snapped out of a daze. She turned, her gaze flicked to the radio as Meredith twisted the dial, and then she sighed. "Oh, no, dear. No, thank you," she said before turning back to gaze out the window, and Meredith yanked her hand away from the offending device as though she'd been scalded.

Meredith sighed, the puff of air escaping through her lips like she was blowing into a trumpet, sending loose bangs flying. "Okay, not a gene thing." She pulled the car out of the parking spot.

Seattle was having one of its bleaker days. Gray clouds hovered in a sheet over the city, robbing the sprawl of humanity of what should have been a beautiful, cerulean July day. Contrary to popular belief, there were a few weeks out of the year where Seattle was almost constantly beautiful. Idyllic. That day was far from idyllic. The whole week had been far from idyllic, actually, she realized. It'd been raining on and off since she and Derek had gotten home from Connecticut.

People wandered in from the parking lot to the hospital or wandered out to find their cars, little specks of activity against a background of bleary. Umbrellas hung folded at their sides, ready to come up like shields at a moment's notice, but more like a fashionable accessory than an unusual addition to the standard apparel. You could always tell the natives, just by how they held their umbrellas, assuming they even bothered with umbrellas at all. People who minded getting wet didn't make it long in Washington, or Oregon, for that matter. Puddles and other memories of a recent drizzle carpeted the pavement with an oil slick sheen, the kind that swirled faintly with all the colors of the rainbow. The air smelled earthy, like rain, even in the car as it cycled through the ducts from the outside.

"I used to," Ellen said.

"Used to what?" Meredith asked.

"I had six rambunctious children, Meredith. I have fourteen rambunctious grandchildren. I enjoy the quiet when I can these days. But I used to have the radio on all the time."

"Oh," Meredith said. "Sorry."

Ellen turned to her. "Whatever for?"

Meredith bit her lip. "I… I don't know. It just seemed like the thing to say."

A ghost of a smile chased across Ellen's face before it disappeared. "It's really all right, dear."

"What is?"

"I know you're doing this for him," Ellen said.

Meredith gripped the steering wheel tightly as she navigated out of the lot. "I really just wanted to go shopping for knitting things. Because I used to knit. And you knit. And it seemed appropriate. Because when would it be better to start again than when I have a really good coach. Assuming you'll help me. I'm sorry. Should I not have assumed that?" she asked, trying to stall the onslaught of panic slowly pulling her into a tailspin of unstoppable babble. "I just… Knitting seemed like a good idea," she added when Ellen didn't reply.

Crap, crap, crap the chorus twittered in her head.

"I like to do it," Ellen replied absently. "It's relaxing. It gives me something to…"

"It helps with surgical dexterity," Meredith blurted. Crap. Like Ellen would care about surgical dexterity.

Ellen raised an eyebrow, watching the scenery pass by as Meredith navigated the streets. "Does it? Hmm," she said.

Meredith swallowed. That was exactly like how Derek sounded. Hmm. She'd thought it was his own verbal quirk. His own sexy verbal quirk. She loved it when he purred deep and low and happy. Hmm. Sometimes, he used it when he was tired, or hurting, or depressed, when a single unhappy syllable could explain everything, wordless, better than a rant or diatribe ever could. The sexy, happy ones were her favorite, the ones when he had naughty thoughts about how delectable she looked, or when he debated what'd he do to her later when he had her alone. Kiss her. Touch her. Unwrap her like a present. The sound itself was like a wave of silk, crawling up her spine. It made her shiver. Not that his mother saying it was sexy. His mother saying it was just… uncanny. And female. And weird. And…

Derek. She'd left Derek alone so she could baby-sit his mother. His mother who hmmed as well. His mother who was freaking out. Well, maybe not freaking out. She was actually rather subdued. It was a subdued… freak. Freak that was not freaking. Ellen was upset. She'd been upset all morning, and she'd been taking it out on Derek. And now she and Meredith were alone in the car together. And Meredith was freaking out. Freaking. Out. About being alone with Ellen for the first time… Ever. Ellen, who, while she'd been very kind and tolerant, probably had no desire to be there in the car with Meredith, who had no desire to be there in the car with Ellen.

Meredith had gotten the impression that she'd slowly been gaining ground, slowly getting Ellen to like her. But… Of all the Shepherds, Ellen was the only unknown quantity. The one she didn't know if she had swayed yet. There'd been progress. Positive progress. But that didn't necessarily mean there was a specific amount of like. Or dislike. Or anything really.

What if…

"Red light," Ellen said softly.

Meredith slammed her foot on the brake pedal. "Red!" she exclaimed as she stared at the intersection light. Her heart throbbed in her chest as the car behind her honked about her sudden stop. Ellen pulled her hand off the dashboard nonchalantly. Meredith swallowed, and her breath came back to her. "Yes, yes, that's red. Very red. I'm… Sorry." Sorry for potentially almost killing you. "Yeah. So, how do you like Seattle?" A spatter of drizzle started to hit the windshield, and she flicked the wipers on.

"It's very green," Ellen replied. "But very gray."

"Yeah, it is green," Meredith agreed. "I've never seen it so green anywhere else. It's like… Like one of those digital film editor people saw the East Coast and the plains and the deserts, thought they were drab, and colorized everything over here to make up for the mess of things everywhere else."

Ellen laughed softly. "I guess the East Coast would seem drab compared to here."

"It's our gift for tolerating all this stupid rain, I think," Meredith said.

"I suppose," Ellen said.

Silence fell into the space between them. The air conditioner whooshed softly in the undercurrent. The sound of traffic hung just in the back of Meredith's awareness, mostly muted by the cabin of the car. The splat, splat, splat of rain began to thunder down onto the windshield as the drizzle became something heavier. The windshield wipers worked hard to clear the mess away. The light turned green, and Meredith accelerated.

It was weird. Wholly weird. Meredith's mind raced as she tried to think of something, anything to say. How do you like Seattle was the penultimate small-talk. It should have carried them through the drear to the store, where Ellen would have, with hope, been distracted by the fancy fabrics and yarns and stuff, but it hadn't. Now, what was she supposed to do? At least the silence wasn't a tense one. Ellen stared off into her own world, her posture relaxed as she pondered the complexities of each raindrop streaking down the window on her side.

"It gives me something else to worry about," Ellen said after they'd gone a few blocks in silence. "Knitting does. Stitching correctly. If I focus on that, I'm not making him feel horrible. I don't want to sit there and make him feel awful, but I can't seem to..." Her voice cut off as she sucked in a breath, two, three, four. Her lip quivered. She raised her weathered, spindly fingers to her face and brushed at her eyes.

Crap, Meredith decided. Taking her future mother-in-law for a trek to a knitting store, alone, when she knew Ellen was already upset… Such a bad, bad idea. She hoped Derek was getting something out of this. Some sleep. Anything to make it worth it. She hoped he didn't mind being alone. She'd promised him she'd stay the whole time. And then she'd left. She'd left, albeit with his mother, but she'd broken the promise all the same. When she'd poked her head back into his room, asked if there was anything he needed, given him a chance to tell her he didn't want them to go, he'd seemed okay with it. He'd… She hoped he would be all right. Better than her stuck in the car alone with his mother, at least.

She snapped out of her thoughts, only to find that the watery, red-eyed look Ellen had been harboring had been replaced with a steady stream of upset. Ellen sniffled softly, staring out the rain-streaked window, looking lost.

"He knows you're upset," Meredith said, trying to reassure her. Anything. "He didn't take any of it personally. He's actually mad at himself for being nasty with you."

Ellen brushed her face and laughed, soft and weepy. "I know I'm not helping," she said. "But I… I'm sorry, dear. He's… He's very sick. David was fine, and then he was gone. I never had any time. And now I do, and all I can think about is that I'm running out of it. I'm not supposed to outlive my son, and from what you and Sarah and the doctor all told me, I almost did."

"Ellen, Derek's going to be fine," Meredith rushed to say, reflexive. "Brain surgery is really hard to deal with for a lot of families because there aren't really any obvious wounds to explain why someone is so bad off afterward. It's hard. It's hard to understand that somebody who, on the outside, looks perfectly healthy, is all torn up on the inside. Craniotomies are notorious for causing fatigue, trouble with concentration, and monster headaches afterward. There is nothing wrong with Derek right now that shouldn't be wrong."

The words had already spilled out of her mouth before she realized what a hypocrite she was being. It was the standard spiel for people having a hard time with a loved one who'd suffered a brain injury, and the words had hopped off her lips by rote. She sighed, upset with herself for even going there. Two days before, she'd been the one who'd needed to talk, and Derek, who'd been feeling like crap, had been there for her, explained to her in tangible terms why he would be there for the long haul. No amount of consoling had helped her before that. No amount of hearing that he would be fine had helped her before that. Ellen needed something she could hold onto, something concrete, something she could understand. She needed her own I'd-come-back-for-you words of truth that would ease her doubting back into its dark and subtle place. And Meredith didn't have those. She had platitudes.

"I know," Ellen replied. "In my head, I know that he's okay. But he looks… With the sheet. Lying flat. David was thirty-eight. He looked so much like Derek does now. He even wore a watch that looked the same," she said. Ellen loosely ran her fingers against her wrist. She didn't wear a watch, but she had a thin gold bracelet the width of perhaps four strands of hair. The bracelet slid up and down with the motions of her worry, catching the light on the coattails of random moments, glittering. She stared out the window, oblivious to it. "The same style. I keep thinking about that day. The same watch. It's silly, the details I remember. I don't remember what shirt he wore in the morning, or what he had for breakfast, or whether he said I love you before he left for work. I wasn't expecting it to be the last day, or I would have paid more attention, I think." Her voice trailed away, and she got lost in the glaze of downpour across her window.

"Aneurysms can be very sudden," Meredith said. Lame. She felt like a lame duck. Like she was consoling someone for being a screwed up freak. She couldn't do that without feeling the stinging burn of hypocrisy only made worse by the fact that this was Derek's mother. Derek's mother, who already had plenty of reasons to dislike Meredith, should she choose to grab hold of them.

"It was," Ellen replied, her voice drifting off. The rain beat down on the roof and the windshield and the road. The road below sounded wet, and the car in front of Meredith sprayed a fan of mist behind it in its wake. A sea of red brake lights spread out before her on the road, lighting up and turning off like the call and response of fireflies on a summer evening.

Ellen glanced at Meredith for a long moment, long enough for Meredith to catch it out of the corner of her eye while she focused on the road. Considering. Ellen was considering her. Ellen's gaze was lost, searching, wondering. When she blinked and broke the stare, something had snapped, and she'd found what she was looking for.

"Nancy begged me," Ellen said.

"What?" Meredith said as she stopped for another light.

Ellen shook her head. "She was fourteen. Kathy was thirteen. Teenagers. Always certain they know best. When David died, they didn't believe me. They wanted to go to the morgue with me to identify the body, and they begged. I was too upset to deal with them begging, to say no when I should have," she said. She blinked, and new tears refreshed the evaporating, salty trail. "Sarah asked questions. Lots of questions. She was six. Old enough to know what it meant, but not old enough to really, really understand it, you know? Natalie was only three. She didn't understand no matter what I said, but she cried. I think she picked up on the mood in the room. In some ways, I'm glad she and Sarah were so young. They were saved from the worst of it. The funeral was just a thing to go to." Ellen sighed. "But Derek... Der stood there and stared when I told them all their father had died. Kathy and Nancy kept saying I was wrong. They were crying, telling me it wasn't right. That there'd been a mistake. But Derek. He just…" She shook her head, her eyebrows twitched once. "Stared. I thought… I convinced myself that seeing David would help them realize what had happened. I thought I could… Hold myself together long enough to get through the day. He didn't ask questions, and I thought that was because he was in denial like his sisters. But he was just a boy. I shouldn't have taken him to see the body, but Nancy and Kathy begged me, I was too upset, he got stuck in the middle of it all, and that's something I will always, always regret."

Meredith blinked, trying not to imagine it, trying and failing. She'd seen pictures of Derek as a kid dotting the walls of Ellen's home. He'd made a cute kid. He'd been a stick, nothing but skin and the sharp angles of bones. His curly hair had been more of an unruly mop back then than anything resembling styled. Dark lashes and dark brows painted his pale face, drawing attention to his eyes. In the earlier photos, back when he'd been a boy and nothing but, he'd always smiled, and it'd been a bright, beautiful thing that took everything else out of the picture and told the person looking at it, "Hello! I'm happy!" She tried to picture him like Ellen was describing, and she just couldn't do it.

The light turned green and she put her foot on the gas pedal, but she was barely aware of driving, which was bad. Bad. But she couldn't…

She'd known Derek's father had died young. It had been the weirdest moment when she'd found out. She'd gone to see her mother at the nursing home. Shortly after she and Derek had gotten back together. The visit had been rough. All Ellis had done was rant that she shouldn't have had a daughter because it had messed things up with Richard, and Meredith had come home barely holding herself together. Derek hadn't asked her what was wrong as she'd crawled under the covers. He'd just slipped his arms around her and held her. She'd started to cry, and he'd whispered things in her ear, whispered things that made it all better even when it wasn't. She'd apologized when she'd pulled herself together.

_What for?_ he'd said.

_I wish I had normal parents,_ she'd mused. _Like yours. I bet your father taught you how to fish and took you camping and did all sorts of normal stuff. My mother taught me how to be the freak I am today. _

His hands had stopped their soothing motions against her back. _My dad is dead, Meredith. He's been dead a long time. Since I was ten._

She'd been too shocked to respond, mentally kicking herself as she'd fought for something to say to that. Anything. Sorry? Sorry had seemed trite and stupid and wrong, considering she'd just been ranting about her parents who'd both been very much alive at the time. They hadn't given her the best childhood, but… She'd had them. Sort of. She couldn't imagine how she would have felt if her mother had died even earlier than she had. Back when they had been living in Boston or something. Back when Meredith had been angry at the world. Angry and pink-haired. Perhaps even earlier, when Meredith had still thought she might be good enough someday. But then he'd kissed the top of her head and whispered into her hair, _Nobody is normal, Meredith. But you're not a freak_.

Tears stung her eyes. "Ellen…" she whispered, flailing frantically for anything to say, anything that would be appropriate, but she failed.

"He's always… He likes to turn himself inward when he's upset or hurting," Ellen said. "It's so easy to assume he's all right when he's not. It took him days to cry about his father, days where all he did was sit around and stare, and then I found him in his room, sobbing. Three nights in a row. Maybe four. And then he never did it again. The girls all did horribly that first semester in school. Derek was the top student in his class. He never came to me about anything again. Until you. It's like he shut himself off for thirty years."

_You were like coming up for fresh air…_

"I don't know what to say," Meredith whispered, trying to reconcile what she was hearing with the Derek she loved. It did a certain amount to explain everything. How Derek had slowly drifted into a persona. A distant workaholic with a driving need to please everyone, stuck in an unhappy marriage. You could only fake being bright and shiny for so long before it all fell apart.

_It's like I was drowning, and you saved me. _

"It's my fault," Ellen continued. "I shouldn't have taken him. Nancy and Kathy did need it. Derek didn't. He knew. He didn't need it driven into him like a spike. He and David were very close. I shouldn't have assumed…"

Meredith pulled into the parking lot at Stitches and turned the car off, but she didn't move. She couldn't. The rain splattering down on the windshield stopped, abrupt, like someone had flipped the universal rain switch or something. Misty gray remained behind, clogging the air with water droplets thick enough to make the air seem cloudy and wet.

"He told me he doesn't remember very much about his father," Meredith replied as if it would wipe the truth away.

Ellen sighed. "Children all deal with grief very differently."

And Derek had apparently faked himself into being fine until it stuck. Fake fine. His whole life. His whole freaking life. How did that work? She wondered if he even had a clue what had gone wrong or when. He probably didn't. It'd shaped him. It explained why all the photographs she'd seen further along in the Derek as a kid timeline had always seemed so serious.

"Derek thinks you're upset because you're thinking about his dad," Meredith said. "So does Sarah, I think."

"I am," Ellen replied, shrugging. "But I'm not. Derek changed. He changed so much when he disappeared. He's found a way to be bright and alive again… You reconnected him with himself, and I will always be grateful. He flirts and jokes and smiles all the time. You saved my son, Meredith. I'd gotten so used to him being a ghost in his own life," she said. Her voice trailed away and she blinked, looking out at the parking lot. The pavement had started to steam, and everything outside the car was murky and waterlogged. She sighed. "I don't want to outlive my children, Meredith. I had to outlive my husband, and I can't… Especially with Derek. Not now. Not when he's finally okay again. He's my boy. And he's happy. He's supposed to have time to be happy."

"Ellen, Ellen, he'll have plenty of time," Meredith insisted before adding in a tiny voice, "He's fine. He's perfectly fine." The words sliced into her like tiny razors, but instead of making her eyes sting with the pain of it, they cut the tears away. Derek fine. She realized, in that moment, without a doubt, that she believed it. She'd been put to the test, trying to defend what she knew was the truth, and it was. It was the truth. Derek would be fine.

_I love a lot of things, Meredith. But I love you the most._

Ellen hadn't been witness to his admission, didn't know the universe was being nice, for once. She couldn't know. But Meredith knew. It was just a thing that was true.

"I keep seeing him on the gurney in the morgue," Ellen said. "They look so much alike. I keep pulling the sheet back in my head, and it's my sweet Der instead of David. And I don't know how to stop it."

"I was freaking out, too," Meredith replied.

Ellen nodded as she wiped streaks of tears away. "I know you were, dear," she said. "I'm glad talking helped." She met Meredith's gaze, solid, blue, fathomless. One blink, and Meredith found the part of the sentence Ellen had omitted. Talking helps me, too.

Meredith gripped the steering wheel, letting her nails bite into the protective leather covering. She might be making dents or tears or something. She didn't know. She didn't care. Derek could buy a new steering wheel cover if it bugged him that much. "Maybe you should talk to Derek," Meredith said. "Talk to… About. You know. Derek is very good at talking people down off proverbial ledge things."

Unlike her. Unlike Meredith. She felt like she was out of her league. She'd barely gotten talking to Derek down. She'd barely gotten talking to Cristina down. Talking to Ellen? Meredith Grey couldn't console Ellen Shepherd. Ellen Shepherd was… She was the mom. She was the Shepherd mom. She was the normal, loving Shepherd mom. The mom Meredith found herself wishing Ellis could have been more like.

Ellen shook her head. "I can't talk to him about David. Not like that."

"Why not?"

"I just can't," Ellen replied with a shrug. "To me, sometimes, he is David. An echo of him. And I can't… I can't do that."

"Oh," Meredith said, feeling grossly inadequate all over again. "Okay. Well…"

"Thank you, Meredith."

"For what?"

Ellen laughed softly as she wiped her eyes again. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but no tears fell. "Listening to an old woman moan about things that should be in the grave with David. It helps, sometimes. To talk about it. I miss him sometimes just for that. David, I mean."

Meredith blinked, realizing for the first time that the woman she'd feared, the woman she'd been at battle to please, the woman she'd sort of admired as a perfect example of a classic, normal, does-everything-right mom, was just a person. Not a perfect mom. But she tried. And she cared. And she was lonely.

Lonely.

"I um. Sure. No problem. I kind of… I do understand," Meredith said, struggling to say the right thing. Was there a right thing anymore? She didn't know. She didn't know anything. "About…" Meredith stammered, continuing, "Well, I kind of ran in circles with my own Derek-is-dying horror scenarios. It wasn't… It was a bad thing. And… You know…" She paused to gesture at the store awning twenty feet beyond the car. "We don't have to go to the fabric store, you know. I just… I was trying… Is there someplace else you'd rather see?" she asked, even as something inside her snapped. Coward!

She watched Ellen, lonely even after thirty years to get used to the idea of being alone, and she saw herself in the distant future. Eight years was a lot. But it wasn't fair or right or okay to worry about it now. It was just a waste of the good years. And the good years before it would be worth it. Absolutely worth it. That was all she could do. All she could ever do. At least seeing Ellen bolstered her certainty into something granite and immobile, not just a word or a fake self-assurance. Ellen hadn't once spoken of regret over loving whom she loved.

"The fabric store is fine," Ellen replied, following the shift in subject as if it had been something linear and predictable, and then the talking thing fell into silence.

Meredith wondered if she'd done something wrong, wondered if she'd cut abruptly short something that she should have let peter off on its own, in its own time, in due course. She felt a little useless as Ellen wiped her face and gathered her purse, but when Ellen got out of the car to peer at the store awning, her gaze flicked between the store and Meredith, and then she smiled.

They walked into the store. A blast of cooler air, cool but not cold, chilled away the dampness on Meredith's skin. A shiver pulsed through her as she stared around at the rows and rows and rows of fabrics. It was like someone had taken a color pallet and tried to use each pigment and shade before repeating. Colors. Everywhere. Ugly colors. Pretty colors. Prints and plaids and polka dots. A saleswoman came to greet them with a cheerful smile and a friendly hello, but wandered off when Ellen told her in a soft, honeyed voice, "Thank you, dear, but we're just browsing."

Meredith wandered toward the section labeled yarn in bold print. The sign hung from the ceiling. Another explosion of color greeted her as she entered the aisle, but organization held it in a firm grip, and the rolls of yarn, arranged by color, seemed more like steady gradients in a rainbow than a vomited explosion from the ugliest browns to the most royal purples. Her fingers brushed against the yarn as she perused the section. The yarn felt soft on casual touch, but tiny, fibrous strands gripped at the pads of her fingers as she dragged them past, giving it a coarse layer above the smooth and soft below. She paused on a deep sangria red.

"Oh, no, dear, not that brand," Ellen said. "The color bleeds all over in the laundry."

"Oh," Meredith said, drawing her hand away. She'd almost forgotten Ellen was there. "What should I…"

Ellen cocked an eyebrow at her. "What are you planning on making?"

"I don't know," Meredith replied. "I didn't… I didn't really do the planning thing. I just… Derek… This was kind of an impulse. But I like knitting. I do. I did, anyway. It was… Relaxing. Sort of. Except. Yeah," she finished lamely. She absently stuck her finger into one of the yarn clots and started worrying at the strands, only to realize what she was doing. She dragged her hand away and clasped her hands together unnaturally in front of her torso, trying to give her fingers something to do.

"What did your friend Izzie have you make?" Ellen said.

Meredith shrugged. "She tried to get me to make a sweater."

"Nonsense," Ellen replied, clucking her tongue. "You shouldn't start on sweaters. No wonder you had trouble. Why don't you begin with a simple scarf?"

"Okay," Meredith replied as Ellen began enthusiastically perusing the aisle. She picked up rolls of yarn at random, holding them up to Meredith's face, making faces that pronounced without words what Ellen thought. Maybe. No, not that one. Maybe. Definitely not. No. No. No. Maybe. Oh, yes. Maybe…

"What color is your favorite coat?" Ellen asked after she'd grabbed three colors. A cream, a deep champagne red, and lilac.

"Well, I have this great white toggle coat that I love to wear in the fall…"

"Red then? That would work with the white," Ellen said, shifting the champagne color to prominence. She stopped to think for a moment. "Or gray. Gray would look lovely against your eyes."

"Gray," Meredith replied, nodding. "Okay. I can do gray. Gray would… Yeah. Grey, gray. It matches, I suppose. Meredith Grey wearing a gray scarf." She paused, trying to rein the words in before she got too out of control. Could she sound any more like a freak? She didn't think so.

Ellen paid Meredith no mind as she put back the three colors she'd picked up and shuffled toward the grays. She picked up a slate gray, shook her head, put it back, and settled for lighter silver. She held the yarn up to Meredith's face and smiled. "Perfect," she said. "You should stick to lighter colors to frame your face. Darker things will make you look worn out. You have needles, right?"

Meredith nodded, and before she knew it, they were walking back out of the store with a bundle of silver yarn in a plastic bag. When she got back into the car and glanced at the glowing digital clock, she sighed. Only forty-five minutes. She hated that she'd left Derek alone, but if it turned out he was actually appreciating the time alone, forty-five minutes was really not all that long. She sighed as Ellen relaxed into the seat beside her.

As if she'd read what Meredith had been thinking as it flitted across her face, Ellen smiled faintly. "I promise, when we get back to Derek's room, I will try to keep my mouth shut for a while, unless you have a question about what to do with that lovely yarn you bought."

Meredith flinched as she turned the keys in the ignition. Caught. Red-handed. In flagrante. Figurative hand in the figurative cookie jar thing. She sighed, swallowing. Definitely not a way to score points. "I wasn't," she began, only to deflate. She'd been caught. She didn't want to dig her hole any deeper. "Okay, I was. I was totally thinking that."

Ellen sighed. "It's really all right. Do you want to show me something else? Maybe give Der some more time?"

Meredith worried at the steering wheel as she pulled the car out onto the main road. Something else. Ellen was actually giving her an out. An opportunity to keep Ellen away from Derek for even longer. "Aside from all the stupid tourist traps that I'm sure you have no interest in," Meredith said, glum, "I don't think I have any suggestions. I'm… I'm really not good for much thinking right now." Beyond blind panic that she might be messing something up. "I'm sorry."

"You must be very tired, dear," Ellen observed.

"I am," she admitted. A shiver ran through her, and a weight she hadn't realized settled down onto her shoulders, bowing her against the seat. She sighed. "I'm… God, this is all so exhausting." The sick thing. The family thing. Everything. At the same time, she felt a little guilty for admitting it. If she was this tired, how bad must it be for Derek? He couldn't sleep with all the noise. It'd been painful to watch him snap awake over and over and over again since they'd switched him to codeine. She really hadn't been able to blame him for being so grouchy to his mother despite his grousing that he should have handled it better.

"Meredith, I don't mean to be too forward," Ellen said, "But, perhaps you'd like to stop at your house and take a nap? I could make some tea. Maybe we could start the first few rows of your scarf. It would give Derek some more alone time."

Meredith sighed. That did sound like a really, really attractive idea. And she could pick up Derek's earplugs while she was at home. Maybe that would help him. But she'd promised. "I told him I'd be there the whole time," she said.

Ellen smiled. "He won't mind. Especially if you get some sleep."

"I… Okay," Meredith said as the protests leaked out of her. She'd been away from home since Tuesday morning, and it was Friday. Just a little… Just an hour. An hour would be nice. She could pick up some clothes that weren't on their last threads.

She steered toward home, sighing when the rain kicked up again into a splatter, splatter, splatter, somewhere between drizzle and downpour. The raindrops were fat, and they fell down straight. No wind. Just wet.

She hadn't been home in over three days. She was stuck somewhere between longing and guilt. Derek was homesick. But he couldn't go home. She felt like she was serving some sort of selfish desire to experience her own shower and her own kitchen and her own bed without any regard for him. What if he got upset? What if he… What if.

"You're really sure?" Meredith asked in a small voice.

Ellen reached across the parking brake and laid a warm, weathered hand on Meredith's forearm. "Meredith, if there is one thing I know about Derek, it's that he wouldn't want you to suffer needlessly on his behalf when there's an easy fix."

"Okay," Meredith replied. The drive proceeded in silence until she sat at a red light, staring at her surroundings, not really to stare at the surroundings so much as to avoid Ellen's scrutiny. She was tired. And she felt even more inadequate now that Ellen had read her like a cheap novel complete with cheating Cliff notes and then decided to do the perfect mother thing. This was supposed to be… This was… Her gaze drifted to the dilapidated shopping plaza on the left of car across several lanes of traffic and rested on the sign for a little mom and pop deli. Sandwiches. Why did that…

"Crap!" Meredith exclaimed. The light turned green, and she put her foot on the accelerator more out of habit than anything else, probably annoying the car in front of her as she proceeded to tailgate at a marginally safe distance of about a foot. She briefly glanced at the deli disappearing by the wayside and sighed.

Ellen looked up from her silent contemplation. "What?"

"I forgot," Meredith said. "I was going to get Derek something to eat. He was asking for something earlier."

Ellen's eyebrows rose, and she smiled. "He was?" she said, her voice rising from its normal earthy registers to something higher-pitched. Something hopeful and flighty and happy. She didn't sound like she thought Derek being hungry was a simple thing. She didn't sound like bringing Derek some lunch was an inconvenience. Just a miracle worthy of being awed.

"Yeah," Meredith replied, frowning. "Something a little more attractive than soupy eggs and greasy sausage. Maybe a sandwich from a deli. We can get something on the way back to the hospital, I guess. Just don't let me forget."

If she took a nap, relaxed at home for a few hours, and then forgot to bring him some food he would like, well… She'd feel awful. Worse than awful.

"Why not make something?" Ellen suggested.

"I don't cook," Meredith said. "Cooking is one of my many not-talent things."

"You helped Sarah with the cookies," Ellen countered.

"That was stirring, and I was tricked into it," she tried to explain. "I can stir. I can totally stir. I just can't cook. It's all… cooking and… Yeah. No. That never goes well."

"Turn in here," Ellen commanded. Her eyes sparkled, and it was the first genuine flicker of excitement Meredith had seen in the woman since she'd arrived in Seattle. She clutched at her purse straps, and looked like she wanted to jump out of the car. While it was moving. Meredith reflexively followed Ellen's directions, responding more to the tone than anything else. It was a mom tone. A do it now, or else tone. She frowned in consternation as Ellen released her purse and wrapped her finger around the door handle. The car rolled to a stop as Meredith eased into a parking space and put her foot down on the brake. Why… Why…

"Safeway?" Meredith said as she absorbed the bold red lettering spanning across the storefront. "I don't need groceries, Ellen," she added. Ellen popped open the door without hesitation and started heading for the main building, dodging past an old woman who, despite the spattering rain, walked her cart back to her car at a speed competitive with tectonic shift. Sometime in the next geologic age, she might reach her vehicle. "Hey," Meredith said to the empty car as she pulled her keys out of the ignition.

"Where are you going?" she added toward Ellen's departing figure as she lugged herself out of the car. The rain slammed down into Meredith, but for all Ellen seemed to care, the sun beat down, baking the streets, and everything was fine. Well, Ellen did have a raincoat. Meredith did not. Meredith wore a pair of ratty knit pants and a holey shirt. She didn't keep many spare clothes in her locker, and she hadn't been home.

"Derek wants to eat," Ellen said brightly, turning around only to smile before turning back.

Oh. Meredith felt stupid, realizing Ellen hadn't heard Derek complain about the food looking awful. She'd just seen him not eat it. He was already acting lackluster and tired. It would be easy to mistake his refusal to eat for disinterest in food altogether. Meredith wanted to kick herself as she started to get a full picture of why Ellen had been so upset that morning.

Crap, crap, crap. She really was bad at this. She raced after Ellen, only to jar to a halt as she smacked into a little red hand basket Ellen held as Ellen turned around.

"Carry this, dear," Ellen said. "My wrists have been bothering me today."

"I um," Meredith stuttered, trying to catch up with the shift from sad, fretting Ellen to take-charge Mom Ellen. She followed, feeling sort of like a drowned rodent, waterlogged, dripping as she clutched at silver handles of the basket she'd been given. "Okay. What are we buying?"

"Things to cook," Ellen replied. "Do you mind if I use your kitchen while you nap, dear?"

"I, uh. Uh, no," Meredith replied as the sliding doors parted for them, revealing aisle after aisle of produce and food and meat and Izzie things. The temperature dropped enough to make her shiver, not from nerves or evaporating moisture, but because the store was essentially a freaking refrigerator, and she was soaked. People traipsed up and down the aisles with noisy, squeaky red carts bearing the store logo. Dirty, muddled trails of water arched toward the doors and into the welcome mats, memories of passing carts. It wasn't busy. But it wasn't empty either.

"No, of course I don't mind," Meredith added as Ellen darted toward an aisle. An aisle with boxes. Lots of boxes. Ellen knew exactly where she was going. "You're welcome to… Yeah. I don't know how clean it is, though." Ellen grabbed a box from the rice section. Ricearoni? Minute rice? "I haven't been home to make sure Izzie hasn't been on one of her maniacal baking sprees. She does that when she's upset, and the whole marriage thing is… Yeah. She was a little upset. So… baking. Maybe baking. Muffins. She likes to make muffins. And cookies. And cupcakes."

Ellen grabbed a can of Campbell's soup next. Meredith didn't catch what kind it was. "And then they multiply into dozens of muffin cookie children until they're all over the kitchen. And she leaves stuff out until we eat it all. Which isn't necessarily bad. Because it tastes good. Well, I guess it's bad. Because it's usually bad for you. Derek won't touch any of it. Izzie stopped trying with him, but the rest of us are all still helpless victims or something. Maybe not helpless. But it's cupcakes!"

Meats next. Ellen poked through the refrigerated chicken section before picking up one that she seemed to think looked good. The pink, uncooked chicken sat mashed under plastic wrap on top of a yellow Styrofoam plate. "But, you know," Meredith continued to babble. Why was she babbling? And why couldn't she stop? The words were like a train wreck from start to finish. She couldn't stop looking to see what would tumble from her mouth next. "I'm just not sure the kitchen is clean. Right. Maybe clean. Maybe not. But you're welcome to…" Ellen turned finally. "Use it," Meredith finished, swallowing.

Ellen stopped moving, and, as if Meredith's whole spiel had been a non-entity, she responded only to the part that was relevant to her. "Wonderful," she said. "I didn't realize he was hungry." She gestured to the basket in Meredith's hands.

Meredith was glad for it. The basket. It meant her hands weren't free to wander all over creation, gesticulating to the tempo of the words cascading from her lips. No. Holding. Holding the crate was very good.

Ellen smiled. "All done."

"What?" Meredith said, hoping that hadn't sounded as much like a quack as it had sounded like to her. "Is that..." She shifted the basket to her left hand and pawed through it with her right. Not that there was much to paw through. "This is everything?"

Ellen nodded. "Yes."

"You're going to cook with minute rice, a can of soup, and some chicken… stuff?" Meredith asked incredulously as they wandered toward the checkout. The store wasn't empty, but the checkout lines were. They came out near the end. Aisle ten. That was the checkout line they picked. The checkout guy smiled at them.

"I never said I was a master chef," Ellen replied as Checkout Guy rang up all their stuff. Their three items of stuff. Stuff-lite. Hardly worthy of the term stuff.

"Paper or plastic?" Checkout Guy said, flashing a bright, toothy grin as he eyed Meredith up and down.

"Paper," Ellen said as she swiped her credit card.

"But you're," Meredith stuttered. "You're all… Mommish. SuperMom. You're SuperMom. How can you not… It's…" She stared as Ellen signed her name on the receipt. "I don't get it."

"Come, now, dear," Ellen said as they walked out. "I essentially had six children, and I was a single mom for over half of it. I didn't have time to be a chef."

"But," Meredith said. "Okay, you've ruined my whole worldview now, I hope you know." The rain had stopped again, so the trek back to the car was leisurely.

Ellen laughed. It was a beautiful, rich sound. Full of life and love and all sorts of Mom things. "Oh, Meredith. You're such a dear."

"Okay," Meredith said, flustered. "Okay, but how does chicken, soup, and rice equal a meal?"

"It's one of his favorites," Ellen replied, shrugging.

"It is?"

Ellen raised an eyebrow. "He doesn't make it at home? I'm surprised. It's one of the few recipes I managed to drill into him before he went to college."

Meredith flicked the unlock button on her keychain. Derek's Lexus chirped, happy to have company again, and the trunk popped open. Trunk. Stupid. You didn't need the trunk for three freaking items. Ellen put them there anyway. Meredith reached up to close the door. The latch clicked, and she moved toward the driver side.

"Wait," she said as she climbed into the car. "You mean that rice thing. With the chicken. That thing that he makes in the casserole dish. That's this? You make that out of this? We could have gone through the express checkout with this without pissing off everyone. This can't be that."

"Well, yes, dear," Ellen said. "It is. It's always been one of his favorites."

"But that's like… It tastes good."

"Oh, Meredith."

"I thought he was being all master cheffy," Meredith said, biting her lip as she navigated out of the parking lot.

Ellen peered at her. "Master cheffy."

"Yes," Meredith replied, nodding. "To be a chef. Cheffy. It should be a word."

"What difference does it make as long as you liked it?" Ellen asked.

"None. I guess. I just…" Meredith loosened her fingers from the steering wheel and laughed, letting the wheel, for once, guide her more than make her feel like she was wrestling with something. The steering wheel uncoiled from the turn, and the smooth, leather guard brushed her palms. "Worldview. Crashing down!" she said. She stopped the car abruptly for a light.

"It doesn't have to be complicated to taste good."

"Anything requiring a stove is complicated to me," Meredith admitted.

Ellen grinned. "I'm sure we'll fix you. I made Derek self-sufficient, and he nearly burned our house down once. We had to replace the countertop and repaint the ceiling. There was a smoke ring over the stove."

Meredith snorted with laughter as she tried to imagine calm, collected, in control, I-fix-brains Derek flummoxed by a stove. He made fun of her. All the time. For her lack of cooking. And now she'd found out that, not only was his master-cheffiness a carefully constructed illusion held up by a can of soup and some minute rice, he'd actually pulled a Meredith and burned something. Her vision blurred. Oh, god.

"Do you have pictures?" she asked. "How old was he?"

"Eighteen. Two weeks before he left for college. And yes. Sarah seemed to think it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen." Ellen leaned back against the seat and chuckled, her eyes sparkling at the memory.

"Copies," Meredith said as she struggled to breathe. "I need copies."

Ellen winked. "I think that can be arranged." She sighed. "Oh, I'm so glad you told me he wants to eat. I was. I thought…"

Meredith wiped the tears away, collecting herself in time to push down on the accelerator for the green light. "He's fine, Ellen. Really. You really want to teach me to cook? I'm probably worse than Derek. Worse by a factor of about, oh, fifty billion and six."

"If you want," Ellen said. "It could be our little project. Not that I pretend to be an expert."

"Well, you're welcome to try," Meredith replied. "We'd need to buy a backup fire extinguisher, though. I don't trust myself to avoid my own pyrotechnic stuff. Even with toast. Toast can be very dangerous, you know. That's where the black, bubbled streak on the kitchen wallpaper is from. But if you want, we could. Or cookies. I could stir some more. That could be a nice interim step. Stirring. The stirring thing. I can definitely stir."

"Let's just start with the rice," Ellen said. "You can watch this time."

"Watching," Meredith said. She let out a withering sigh. "Oh, thank god. I mean. Yeah. Watching sounds good. Great. Watching sounds great."

Ellen smiled, and the silence for the rest of the drive was a warm one. Their can of soup rolled around in the trunk, thumping and clanking whenever she made a fast turn, and Meredith couldn't help but snort with laughter whenever it made a noise. Ellen watched the scenery, but with a vague, ghost of a smile pasted across her face instead of weary, passive watching and worry. And, in what seemed more like seconds than fifteen minutes, Meredith found herself sticking her house key into the old brass lock and jiggling it.

The door gave way with a little jimmying, and she made an absent note to get a contractor out to fix it. Or maybe Alex or Derek. Maybe Derek. Maybe not Derek, she decided as she thought about the burnt ceiling disaster. Perhaps he wasn't as much of a capable homebody as she thought he was. But he was a guy. And a surgeon. And a control freak. So, he'd probably try to fix it even if he didn't know how, and then he'd break it more. Laughter stuttered through her. There she blows! She imagined Derek ducking for cover as a plume of flames belched up from the stove pilots all while Sarah cackled maniacally, snapping photos. Siblings. Awesome. She made a note to pump Sarah for more stories.

"Oh, Meredith," Ellen said, her voice low and breathy as she stepped into the foyer and peered around, pulling Meredith back into something resembling serious in less than a blink. "This is where you live? This house is lovely." The surprise in her voice was impossible to miss, and the remainder of Meredith's relaxed, happy feeling dwindled into a faint pile of exhausted embers.

Ellen had met Meredith thinking Meredith was just a gold digging bar slut on a crappy intern salary. She'd been friendly and tolerant thus far, but apparently, Meredith hadn't managed to dispel all the stigma Nancy had generated for her as a welcome mat that essentially said go away.

"It was my mother's," Meredith admitted, trying to ease the sudden, jittery attack of nerves. She glanced around frantically. Izzie had kept it relatively clean since she'd left. Nothing looked out of place. "Derek and I are going to move back to his place, I think. We're going to get a house built there eventually. But we talked, and I… Moving back."

Ellen shrugged her raincoat off. Meredith pointed to the closet. "The trailer?" Ellen asked as she hung up her coat, an underlying thrum of caution biting at her tone.

"Yeah. He likes it," Meredith said, suddenly defensive. Why did they have to bitch so much about the trailer? "I like it. Why not move somewhere we both like?"

Ellen smiled faintly. "I haven't seen it yet."

"I'm sure he'd show it to you if you asked," Meredith said.

"Maybe after he's feeling better," Ellen said as they walked out to the kitchen. Ellen settled the paper bag containing her rice, chicken, and soup onto the counter as she glanced around, her eyes wide and discerning and calculating. Izzie had, thankfully, not been on a baking binge recently, and everything hovered somewhere between neat and spotless perfection, not quite enough of one or the other to classify it as anything other than acceptably clean.

Meredith brought her arms up to her chest and rubbed her palms against her biceps, using the friction to try and stop the shaking in her chilled torso and limbs. She didn't have a raincoat at the hospital. She'd managed to get completely waterlogged from all the walking in the rain. Her hair hung in drippy tendrils. As she stood there, shivering, she felt naked. Ellen made absolutely no effort to hide the fact that she was evaluating.

"Why do you like it?" Ellen asked as she came to a stop behind the center island.

"The trailer?" Meredith asked.

"Yes," Ellen said.

Meredith shrugged. "The morning."

"What about it?"

"You can go sit out on his deck with a cup of coffee and it's just… Perfect," Meredith said, closing her eyes, unable to stop the smile as the picture of it unfurled in her head. She could remember one morning where she hadn't gotten dressed. Derek had pulled a double shift and had still been asleep. She'd grabbed a sheet from the bed, wrapped herself up, and gone out to sit on one of his deck chairs. The temperature had been just chilly enough to need the sheet. The morning had been utterly still. She'd listened on the deck for a long time. Listened to the nothing. There'd been birds and movement and wind and water lapping from the nearby lake. Leaves rustling. But no people. No cars. No noise, just sound. A thin layer of fog had hovered over the grass, making it seem like something out of a dream, and in that moment, that silent, beautiful moment, she'd known deep in her heart why Derek had fallen in love with it, because she'd fallen in love with it, too.

"The air is all gray and misty and damp, and you can hear the birds and everything moving," she said, trying to describe it. "Every sip of coffee is… It just makes you warm. From the inside out. But the best part is when Derek gets up, slips his arms around me, and we just watch."

"Watch what?"

"Everything," Meredith said breathily. When she opened her eyes, she saw Ellen staring at her, contemplating, serious. "I'm really sorry," she added. "I'm not a poet. Another of my not-talents."

"It does sound nice," Ellen said.

"It is," Meredith said. "And this house? It's not really mine. It's just… A pile of stupid memories that I seem to be stuck in."

"Surely, they can't all be bad."

_Daddy, Daddy, look!_ she'd squealed as she'd gotten her wagon to start trundling down the hill. She'd put her arms out like the wings of an airplane until he'd come up behind her with his strong hands and lifted her out as she'd giggled. The wagon had kept on rolling.

_Oh, you're a big girl_, he'd goaned as he'd picked her up.

_Flyin'!_ she'd shrieked. He'd run her down the hill making engine noises.

"No," Meredith said. "I guess not. But…"

Ellen smiled. "Change is good."

"Change is great," Meredith replied, her gaze reflexively tumbling down, down, down the length of her arm to her ring. The kitchen lights made it sparkle. And, whether it was the tiredness that unfettered her emotions, or the fact that Derek was sick, but he'd still said yes, or the whole mess of everything in the last two weeks… She blinked, and tears started streaking down her cheeks. Not grief. Just… Everything. Elation. All of it. She touched the sharp edges of the diamond and couldn't stop herself from gasping. When she realized Ellen was still staring at her, though, she pulled it all back inward and offered a lame, quivering, "Sorry," as she wiped at her face, frantic to erase the salty stains.

Ellen rounded the island and closed the space between them. She eased herself down into the chair by the table and clasped her hands in front of her. A simple gold band still gripped Ellen's left ring finger. It was the first time Meredith had noticed it.

"Meredith, you seem…" Ellen said, her voice trailing away as she searched for a word. She inhaled deeply before continuing. "I know we didn't meet under the best circumstances. And I know your family life has been difficult from what little you've said about it. I also know that you've been working under the assumption that you have to win me over."

"Well I…" Meredith said, her voice hitching as she realized she'd been read again. How was this woman so freaking discerning? It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all. Meredith collapsed into the seat across from Ellen, too tired to deny or come up with an excuse. "Yeah. Okay. Yeah, I was. Derek was nervous, too. Not as crazy-worried as I was. But he was nervous. At first, anyway, not that he would admit it. He and I didn't meet under glowing circumstances. And then there was… You know. Addison. It was a mess. A big, messy, messy mess… thing. I'm sorry. You probably liked her a lot. She's leggy and fabulous and mature." And I'm not.

"Addison?"

"Yeah," Meredith said as a sigh racked her frame. She stared down at her placemat and started fiddling with the frayed edges. "She's a very likeable person. Even I like her. Which is scary at times."

"I did," Ellen said. "I adored her. But that doesn't have any bearing on now."

Meredith looked up. "It doesn't?"

Ellen leaned forward and caught Meredith's gaze with her own, unblinking blue one. Her stare was warm, not accusing or hateful or anything of the kind. "She was a good match for the ghost, Meredith," Ellen said. "She was good for the Derek I got used to, the Derek we all got used to. They were content, and I thought that would be the end of the road. It wasn't a bad place. Just not perfect. But they drifted. She made a stupid mistake, and Derek... All we heard was that he'd dropped his multi-million dollar private practice in New York on a whim to work on staff at a hospital across the country, that he'd bought a trailer, and that he'd had some sort of affair with a surgical intern he'd met at a bar, of all places," Ellen added. Her eyes added a subtle apology for the dig. Sorry for the bar thing. It's just what we'd heard.

"We gave him a hard time," Ellen continued. "It was easy to give him a hard time when he was thousands of miles away and just a voice on the phone. But you make him happy. All he has to do is look at you, and it's perfectly obvious. That's all I've ever wanted for him. To be happy." Ellen stopped and reached across the table, staying Meredith's worrisome fiddling, clasping her old, age-spotted hands over Meredith's younger, smaller ones. Heat slipped from Ellen's skin into Meredith's rain-drowned fingers.

"Meredith, you don't have to fight to win me over," she said. "I'm already won."

Meredith shuddered, staring down at Ellen's hands eclipsing hers. "I'm…"

"Do you really want to knit that scarf, Meredith?" Ellen asked.

"I'm…" Meredith began, trying to stop herself from crying all over again. "I'm very bad at the knitting thing."

"But do you want to do it?" Ellen prodded.

"No, not really," Meredith admitted as the tears began to fall. "I did the knitting thing when I was miserable."

"You're happy now?" Ellen said.

"Happier than I've ever been in my life."

Ellen nodded and drew her hands away, eyes sparkling. "I'll knit it for you," she said.

"Really?"

"Of course, dear."

Meredith reached up to wipe at her eyes, but it was useless. Everything she'd been bottling up since she'd dragged Ellen out to the car escaped, and she cried. "Thank you," she whispered hoarsely. "It means… A lot. It means a lot."

She would have married Derek anyway. She would never run again. But she hadn't realized until that moment how much she'd wanted Ellen's approval. And it felt… She gasped as another sob racked her. She wasn't sad. She didn't know why she was crying so much.

Ellen smiled. "You should go take a shower and warm up," she said. "You're freezing." She searched around the kitchen, located a clean pot, and started preparing the rice.


	47. Chapter 45

**Author's Notes: Behind on my comments, again. Thank you so much for the feedback! It's getting very late, and I figured you'd want this more than feedback on your feedback :) I really appreciate it all, nonetheless. It really keeps me going on this story. **

* * *

"Derek, it's your turn," Meredith said softly against his neck, inhaling deeply as her words fell away into silence. She rested against him, breathing, warm, the curves of her right leg mashed up against his left. Her fingers squeezed his shoulder, and all he had to do was tilt his head, and his nose would be buried in the soft, silky strands of her hair. He felt okay. Not great. But okay. For the first time. If he started walking around, tiredness dragged him down by degrees, but if he stayed immobile, if he took things easy, he didn't feel so wasted all the time. And that was way better than he'd been feeling the past few days, when just being awake and sitting up had exhausted his depleted reserves. 

He blinked, staring at the Monopoly board spread out on his tray table. With eight people playing, his bed and the board were a mess. Cards sprawled about all over, wherever they fit, resting against his legs, his hip, his ankles. Money and house pieces had been scattered like a torrent had blown through the room, though there was order to it if one chose to look closely enough. The game was down to Meredith, Lindsey, and him.

"I know it's my turn," he said. "I'm thinking."

His family sat around his bed in a ring. He didn't know where they'd gotten all the chairs, but they'd managed. Annie sat on the bed down by his feet. She was the banker, which made transactions somewhat slow because Sarah often had to help her and explain, but she had fun, and everyone humored her. His mother sat in a chair to his right. Sarah and Stewart to the left. Lindsey and Mark sat closer to his feet.

He ran his hand back against his scalp. They'd removed the bandage that morning after his latest MRI, and he felt weird. It had been easy before. Easy to pretend. Easy to think of the skullcap of bandages as something hiding what should have been his hair. A hat. A scrub cap. Something. But it was gone, and he felt somehow naked. He spooned some Muesli from his bowl into his mouth, trying to ignore the feeling that everyone in the room was staring at him. He looked up from the Monopoly board, sighing. Well, they were staring, just not because he was bald and had a huge scar the shape of a distorted, smooshed C running along the side of his head.

"It's Monopoly, man," Mark said. "Monopoly doesn't require thinking."

"It does," Derek insisted.

"It's really based a lot on luck," Stewart said.

"I think he's just mad because I got to be the cowboy," Mark said.

"No," Derek said. "But you're making me regret flipping for it with you."

He took another spoonful of Muesli. His mother had started bringing him food. Real food. It'd started with chicken and rice the day before, which had been perfect. She'd brought in a carton of milk, a box of Muesli, and bagels and spread for everyone that morning, much to the smiling appreciation of the nursing staff. His tray table and bed were in such disarray at this point that he kept the cereal perched in his left hand. He took the last bite, let the spoon clank into the empty bowl as he released it, and lowered the bowl, only to have his mother reach across his lap to take the dish away. The action might have bothered him at one point, particularly the day before, but he was pinned, not from exhaustion, but by people and the board game, all its pieces, and his tray table. That was nice. Nice to be pinned by something he could see and yell at to go away if the feeling became too unbearable instead of something broken inside his own body.

"I think he's intimidated," Meredith said.

"Nobody ever lands on Boardwalk. I'm not intimidated," Derek said.

"You're totally intimidated," she said. "I'm going to win."

He rolled the dice and pushed his racecar forward three spaces, which seemed like an awfully meager advancement considering the fact that he was a damned racecar. He glanced at Lindsey's wheelbarrow. She'd moved eleven her last turn. How did that work? A racecar getting outrun by a wheelbarrow. Meredith's palm appeared in front of him, and he sighed. He'd been hoping she wasn't watching, or had assumed that, like the racecar he was, he would have zoomed past go.

"Pay up," she said. "I guess somebody lands on Boardwalk."

He stared at the shiny, red hotel on Boardwalk and frowned. His gaze darted to his meager pile of fives and three ones and then back to Boardwalk. He'd just sunk all his money into development. "Shouldn't I have part ownership of that?" he said. "We are getting married."

"Nope," Meredith said without hesitation. "It's mine. Pay up." She rubbed her fingers together in a classic tip me motion as she snorted with laughter.

"I'm just going to get it all back in a minute," he said, gesturing to her little Scotty dog, which sat parked on Ventnor Avenue, barely safe from the stretch of danger on green. He had hotels on the greens.

"Not if you have to mortgage everything to pay up," Meredith replied, ruthless. "Pay up, Derek."

He turned and grinned at her. "You're very bossy."

"You like it," she said. The skin around her eyes crinkled, and she smiled, deep and full, just a hint of her white incisors. Her eyes sparkled, and she looked… Beautiful.

"I do," he replied, leaning in to kiss her, but she splayed her palms against his chest and gently pushed him away.

"No kissing," she said, eyes flashing. "Pay!"

"But…"

"Uncle Derek, you gotta pay," Annie informed him.

"Fine," he grumbled. He started totaling up, frowning as hotel after hotel turned into houses, and then houses dwindled, leaving nothing. Counting the money took longer than it should have, but nobody pressured him, tapped their fingers, or looked impatient. He had to start flipping properties over. By the time he was finished, he still didn't have quite enough. He handed Meredith the big pile of money and leaned back against the pillows, relaxing, hooding his eyes.

"Well, you've bankrupted me, I hope you're happy," he said, winking at her.

"I am," she replied. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, and then she looked back at the board like a quiet predator, calculating. The game was down to her and Lindsey. He let himself drift as they proceeded to bounce funds back and forth in a vicious battle.

The day before had been exhausting. After the argument with Mark, things had been a vague, dark blur. He remembered Meredith finding him in his office. The lights had been out in the room except for a small lamp Mark had used for light to complete his paperwork. He'd watched Mark and Meredith exchange a few words, and then Mark had disappeared.

Meredith had knelt next to the chair Derek had collapsed into, and she'd whispered hello in a soft, smoky tone. He remembered leaning forward, wrapping his arms around her, sighing into the mess of her hair, breathing, breathing, silent. She'd rubbed her palms along his back, slow and soothing. "I love you even more than before," she'd said, and then, in the darkness, she'd kissed him. It had been a soft and building thing, and he'd been too tired to ponder the why. He'd returned the kiss until he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, and the world had disintegrated into dust around the sparkling focal point of her and her alone. In the quiet that had followed, she'd helped him into the hallway, where he'd collapsed into the wheelchair she'd brought.

She'd moved him back to his room. He could remember leaning back in the chair, eyes shut, listening to the sounds of her behind him. The lights had been a passing blur, and he'd dozed in and out, though Meredith had been a constant behind him. Always inhaling, always exhaling. He'd gotten back into his hospital bed. Abasi had descended like a bird of prey on a mouse, quickly, quietly, resetting monitors and things, though he hadn't complained at all that Derek had essentially disappeared for over two hours. Derek had proceeded to sleep the whole day away.

The smell of food had woken him once, which was when he'd discovered that Meredith and Ellen hadn't made just a stop at the knitting store. He'd eaten, and then he'd slept. Slept. Slept. When he'd finally woken up for real, a whole day had slipped from his grasp, and Dr. Weller and a few nurses had been talking in his room, prepping to wheel him down for a follow-up MRI to make sure he was still on track for going home.

Home.

He swallowed against the lump that clotted in his throat. He really wouldn't mind going home. Dr. Weller hadn't come back with the MRI results yet. Derek sighed, trying not to knead the blankets as an outlet for his nerves. He really wanted home.

"I win!" exclaimed Lindsey as Meredith forked over a heaping pile of fake cash, and everyone around him was laughing and happy and…

"Derek?" Meredith said in a low voice underneath all the conversation flying left and right. She blinked and peered at him, the gray of her eyes peeking through the gaps of her long lashes, sparkling and alive. Her eyes asked questions. Do you need to sleep? Should we put the game away? Do you need it quiet? But she said none of them. Her fingers slipped along his wrist, underneath the band that pronounced his name and allergies to everyone. She rubbed his palm, his knuckles, everything, and he sighed.

"I'm okay," he replied. No one was paying attention. Except Meredith. And his mother, who, while she looked concerned, said nothing. "I think I should get to be the cowboy this time," he added in a louder voice, trying to joke, anything to keep himself away from the quiet moments that reminded him he didn't want to be there anymore, the moments in which he had time to think, the moments in which someone reminded him he was ill, the moments he got stared at.

"I'm the cowboy," Mark said. "We flipped for it, and you lost, man."

"Oh, come on. I'm totally the cowboy. I can't even get hat hair anymore. I have the advantage."

He hadn't realized he'd made the remark until everyone froze at once, and for a heartbeat, silence held the air in a desperate, life-strangling chokehold. He leaned forward, ran his palms up against his face and sighed as his fingers slid underneath the oxygen lines. Everyone stared, Mark, his mother, everyone, and from the confusion on their faces, they had no idea what to do. He shivered as embarrassment flushed his skin, and he felt the staring as though it were peeling layers off. Layers of himself.

"Maybe we should stop," Sarah said quietly. "You have to be tired after all the activity today."

He shook his head. He wasn't tired. He felt disgusting from not showering since Wednesday. He felt homesick. But he wasn't tired. The morning had been nonstop activity, but it hadn't been anything strenuous on his body. Just… Strenuous on everything else. Wheelchair to bed to wheelchair to bed to wheelchair and so on wasn't difficult, just demoralizing, especially since hospital policy and not his own tiredness was the only reason he hadn't been allowed to walk to his appointments. He hadn't had a moment alone and out of scrutiny to unwind since the morning had slowly coiled him up. By the time they'd finished with all his tests, he'd been starving, and his whole family had been loitering in his room like a cloud of bees, buzzing, buzzing, talking. Annie and Lindsey had gotten so antsy from all the waiting that a game of Monopoly had been started in his absence. When they'd brought him back to his room, everyone had decided to stay for a while and visit while they waited for Dr. Weller to come back with all the test results. Monopoly had continued.

"No, I'm fine," Derek said. "I'm not tired. Don't stop on my account."

Nobody looked convinced.

"Eh," Mark said, shrugging. "So, he's pissed about the hair. It's better than being too tired to care about it."

Derek turned to Mark, surprised at the unexpected attempt at a rescue. They weren't okay. They weren't okay at all. But at least understanding resided in what had once been just disconnected space.

"You're still not the cowboy this time," Derek said, smirking.

"Keep dreaming, McDreamy," Mark replied.

"That hurts, Mark. It does," Derek said. "McSteamy."

"McDreamy is lame, man. McSteamy implies a certain prowess."

"McSteamy implies that the benefits stop at prowess," Derek said. "I'm a valuable commodity. It's all about the complete package, you know."

Meredith snorted and coughed. Her face turned bright red. "Sorry. I-- Sorry."

"You two do realize that I'm sitting right here?" Ellen said, her eyebrows raised, though her gaze sparkled, and a smile pulled at her lips.

"Dirty man," Meredith said when she'd recovered.

"Dirty family," Stewart corrected. "That was tame. You should have seen that time when Mark brought home—" Stewart recoiled in silence when Sarah smacked him on the shoulder.

Derek ran his thumb along Meredith's jaw line and leaned toward her. The softness of her skin and the subtle way the tiny hairs flattened against his skin made him sigh, and the room dissolved. "You love me for it," Derek said, unable to stop the smile that settled on his face.

"I do," she replied, meeting his gaze. "I really, really do."

"I don't," Stewart said as he rubbed his shoulder. "It's more of a manly affection." Sarah smacked him in the shoulder again, but despite it all, the room stayed distant and blurry to the clarity of Meredith, shoulder to shoulder with him.

"I love you, too, Mere," Derek said. He kissed her shoulder before turning back to the mayhem in front of him on the Monopoly board. His mother sighed, long and relaxed, and she wiped at her eyes, but she didn't seem sad or distraught for once despite the wetness she drew away with her lithe fingertips.

Meredith lay her head on his shoulder and sighed. She ran her hand up and down the slight bulge of his quadriceps, fleeting over the soft thermal blanket, and Derek relaxed further. The motion made him want to kiss her again, and that made him happy. Because he wanted to kiss her. Not to play or distract. To love. He wanted. Despite the audience. Despite the fact that he felt gross. Despite the fact that he wanted to go home. Despite everything. The feeling was abrupt. Abrupt enough to make him tense up.

"What's McDreamy?" Annie asked.

Everyone laughed at once except him.

"Not now, starshine," Stewart said as the thunder of chatter bounced around the crowd surrounding him. Derek blinked, wishing he could melt away.

He wanted Meredith. He looked at her, felt her close to him, breathing in the same space, and he wanted her. He wasn't tired. For the first time. And he wanted her. It'd been a week. Since they'd been together, they'd rarely abstained for more than two or three days at a time, and now it'd been a week. He wanted her. Needing flared up like a napalm bomb in his chest, and he forced himself to calm down. Forced himself to think of other things. Other things that didn't involve being stuck in a bed, wanting, needing, all while a large chunk of his family hovered within feet of him.

He breathed. Deep. In and out. He felt disgusting. A game of Monopoly had been sprawled across his bed and tray table. His mother was there. Mark was there. Annie was curled up like a pretzel between his feet and Meredith's. He wasn't some adolescent boy who couldn't keep his hormones in check. The more he added onto the thoughts in his head, the calmer he felt, though the happiness remained. He definitely wanted Meredith. Which made him feel more okay than any part of the healing process before it. That was… He felt more like himself than he had in days.

"When do we play again?" Annie asked, drawing everyone's focus to her.

Derek smiled and wiggled his toes, eliciting a shriek as Annie wrapped her fingers around the blankets over his feet, scooting out of his way. The pressure of her grip almost hurt. Almost. He grinned at her, wiggling his toes again.

"Stop that, Uncle Derek," she said, giggling, her laughter like the peal of bells to him.

Everything seemed to lift off him like a weight. He channeled it into something he could express with his family, not just with Meredith. He actually felt okay. Not great, but okay. Really okay. And that, just by itself, was enough to be great.

He waggled his eyebrows at Annie, who regarded him suspiciously. "Stop what?" he said.

"That!" she shrieked when he did it again.

He smiled, leaning forward slightly like a cat getting ready to pounce. The intravenous line trailed with his wrist. He gripped the tray table, pushed it to the side, and tackled her, running his fingers lightly along her ribcage.

Annie shrieked and laughed and squirmed. Monopoly pieces went flying, sending Stewart and Mark and Ellen jumping to their feet to avoid the flying plastic projectiles, followed shortly by Sarah and Lindsey. Cards and fake money fell to the floor, scattering, but he didn't care. He didn't care because Annie was laughing. Because his family was dancing around the room trying to pick things up, joking with each other. Their loud rumble of voices flew everywhere, and nobody cared that he'd made a crack about his hair or lack thereof. He wasn't tired or bedridden, not in reality, but particularly not in that moment. He was okay. He was playing with his niece, who always watched him with that look of amazement kids always seemed to have when they idolized someone. Wide-eyed. Innocent. Awed. He was Uncle Derek, the best neurosurgeoner ever. He played cards and games with her and always listened to her as though everything she said was important and worthy of careful reflection.

"What in the hell?" a familiar voice said, loud and sharp and scolding. Dr. Bailey stood in the doorway, clipboard clutched precariously in her hand. A pen rested in the space over her ear, and her eyes and nostrils flared with disbelief. She looked official and serious and flabbergasted all at once.

Derek leaned back against the pillows, letting Annie recover, unable to stop the sloppy grin as it spread across his face. Annie had draped her tiny torso over his shins. Her small pink Velcro shoes dangled in the air, attached to her feet only by the precarious grip of luck. Her body quivered as she recovered her breath, laughing, her face deep pink with cheer.

His family stilled, and accented by the cease of voices, the remaining plink of scattering Monopoly pieces gave the air a comedic quality. Stewart, who towered over everyone in the room, was the first to point at Derek and say, "It wasn't me. He started it."

"The tickling thing, not the Monopoly," Meredith added. "We're playing Monopoly. That's totally our fault."

"Grey, do I look like an idiot?" Dr. Bailey snapped. "I know what Monopoly is."

"Hi, Miranda," Derek said, giving her what he hoped was an innocent, McDreamy smile. He wondered if it would be half as effective when he was bald and scarred, lying in a hospital bed. But he felt okay, and even the prospect of getting yelled or stared at like a leper couldn't stop him from trying.

The skin around Dr. Bailey's eyes ticked, but her face relaxed, her voice softened, and the thick tension her motherly authority brought to the room bled away. Though she still held an air of cautious scorn about her, she didn't snap about the stupid grin that replaced his attempt at McDreamy persuasion. No belting, "Wipe that stupid grin off your face." Instead, she said, "Derek," as she walked over to the bed, carefully avoiding Monopoly pieces, "How are you doing? You look a lot better than the last time I saw you."

"I'm fine," he said before gesturing loosely at the crowd of people in his room. "This is my sister Sarah, Stewart, my brother-in-law, and their two kids, Lindsey and Annie. This is my mother, Ellen. Everyone, this is Dr. Miranda Bailey."

"Hi!" Annie said, and for a moment, the steely gaze pasted on Dr. Bailey's face weakened. Annie wriggled on the bed, and Derek grunted as her elbow jabbed him, and she forced herself upright. She resettled in the crook between his and Meredith's feet.

Dr. Bailey peered around, pausing to consider each and every person in the room.

"Nice to meet you all," Dr. Bailey said, though her snippy tone belied the words. As if it was not nice, not nice at all to be greeted with this particular family scene. Her quiet consideration of him deepened into a glare. She looked at Meredith, who sat next to him, buried in Monopoly cards, looking rather flushed with guilt. "Why isn't she studying?"

"She has been," Derek said. "Almost nonstop."

"Oh," Dr. Bailey said. "Why aren't you resting?"

"He has been," Meredith assured Dr. Bailey. "Almost nonstop."

"Oh," Dr. Bailey said. She squared her shoulders as if they were wings, and she was a bird who'd had her feathers ruffled. "Well then."

"Want to play?" Derek asked weakly.

Dr. Bailey gestured to her lab coat and scrubs in a sweeping, jerky motion that nearly sent her clipboard flying as she narrowed her glare. "Dr. Shepherd, I am a surgeon. I perform surgeries. I'm currently in my scrubs, implying that I might, just might, have surgeries to do today. Do I look like I want to play Monopoly?"

"Does wanting to play Monopoly really have a particular look?" Stewart asked.

Dr. Bailey peered down at the torrential mess on Derek's tray table. "Grey, are you winning?" she asked.

"I beat Derek, at least," Meredith replied cheerfully.

"Good," Dr. Bailey said, a pleased grin pulling at her features before she turned back to Derek. "I have a whipple in an hour. I just wanted to make sure you weren't corrupting my intern or killing yourself."

"That hurts, Miranda," Derek said. "It does."

"You're the one who was kissing her two hours out of surgery. Not me. And don't let me get started about your morphine drip. Crazy damned fool," Miranda said, shaking her head as she turned around. She dodged Monopoly pieces as she parted, and within moments, the room devolved into soft laughter as everyone relaxed.

"That woman scares me," Derek said.

"You like her," Meredith replied. "Thanks for covering for me."

He shrugged. "I do. I'm your wingman, remember?"

She grinned. "You make a good wingman."

"It's a gift," he said.

"Wow, man," Mark interrupted suddenly. "That's impressive."

"What?" said Meredith.

"Two hours out of surgery," Mark replied. "Kissing. When I had my appendectomy, I just wanted to hurl."

Meredith nodded. "I kissed him," she said before turning to look at Derek with a sly grin. "He's very kissable."

"See? It's all about the package deal," Derek said. He stared at Meredith, trying to stop the slow burn from taking him prisoner again as it raked his mind over the coals. This was not a good discussion to keep his mind off things. Sex. Sex with Meredith. He hadn't had sex with Meredith in a week. The scent of her hair wrapped around him. He clutched his fingers against the edges of the blanket. He was not going to get turned on. Not then. No. No. No.

Annie made a face. "Kissing is gross."

"Yeah, kissing is gross," Lindsey agreed.

"You just need the right person to kiss," Derek said.

Annie's eyes widened. "Were you making seeds bloom, Uncle Derek?"

Mood successfully killed.

"Um," he said. He felt embarrassed heat crawling into every pore as Meredith started to roar with laughter. She clutched at his shirt, tears in her eyes, face red, crying with the rolling chuckles as her body quivered next to his. Annie and Lindsey stared at the spectacle with curiosity. Sarah sniggered, and Stewart stood to pick up Annie. He growled playfully at her as he dragged her into his lap and started tickling her all over again.

"Let's hope not," Stewart said as Annie writhed and giggled. "Or I've been doing it wrong."

"Do I want to know?" Mark asked.

Derek sighed. "Probably not."

"I can't believe Kathy let you corrupt the entire family," Sarah said.

"I can't believe Kathy made me corrupt the entire family," Derek corrected.

Mark's eyes widened in confusion. "What did you do, man?"

"Nothing," Derek insisted.

"He gave the sex talk to everyone who hadn't gotten one yet," Sarah explained.

"Why?" Mark asked.

"The kids were wondering what all that racket was," Stewart said.

"Racket?" Mark said. "Oh. Derek, man."

"She started it," Derek said, pointing to Meredith.

"I did not," Meredith replied. "You're the one who—" she said, only to grind to a halt as her gaze flicked to Ellen and then to the kids, who both appeared to be watching the exchange with rapt attention. "Er. Nothing."

"It's okay," his mother said in a low, earthy tone, vague enough to keep the discussion from devolving too far for Annie and Lindsey to hear without being scarred for life. "I know."

"But you were outside!" Stewart said.

"I thought you covered," Derek hissed.

"I did!" Stewart replied.

"Come now, dears. I may be old, but I'm not deaf. Or blind."

"See?" Sarah said as she looked at Meredith. "I told you we're all desensitized letches at heart."

"My fault," Mark said.

"Can't I take some credit, too?" Stewart said.

"At least you're not the ones she heard," Meredith said.

"At least you're not the ones she saw," Stewart replied.

"Okay, shutting up now," Meredith said.

"Oh, relax, children," Ellen said. "I'm well aware of the time and attention that you devote to each other. I had five of you, you know. You didn't come from storks. Goodness. Though, a little more decorum would always be appreciated."

"Addison," Derek murmured, and the room froze.

Addison stood in the doorway. She wore her hair twisted up into the grip a hairclip. Red strands spilled out the top like a mussed up waterfall, similar to how Sarah had arranged her own hair that morning. She wore a black skirt and a printed blouse under her lab coat. Pearls donned her neck. Her feet sloped into elegant, pointed heels that Derek somehow hadn't heard approaching. She looked elegant as always, like she'd come into the room straight from the aisles of a department store on the Upper East Side, though a crisp, golden tan had dusted her skin in the time she'd been away, creating a look that screamed beach more than Manhattan.

Her eyes were wide, her lashes fluttery, uncertain. She clutched her hand to her chest in a pose reminiscent of a swoon. "I heard you'd needed surgery when I came in today," she said, her voice uncharacteristically soft and lost. "I thought I'd come to see how you were. But you seem to be..." Her gaze flicked to Mark. To Meredith, who sat in the bed with him. He didn't miss the way her stare lingered on Meredith's ring finger. The sparkling diamond set against the platinum band, though not pretentious in size, was hard to miss whenever it caught the light. Addison swallowed, and like a startled bird, her gaze flicked to Stewart. To Sarah. To all his family all around him. "I'm sorry to intrude," she said. "I'll just. Go."

For a brief, heartless, awful moment, he felt a stab of pleasure that she had been so discomfited by the scene before her. He couldn't help it. It just happened.

Guilt seeped into him as rational thought retook his mind, and the woman he'd been married to for eleven years fled. He'd been planning to tell her about the engagement as soon as Meredith felt comfortable announcing it. He'd been planning to tell her. And he'd been planning to apologize. Apologize for… everything. Then his headaches had started getting worse, and his plans had been shot to dust in the space of hours.

"Addison," he called, but, as silent as she'd been approaching, she made a thunderous racket in her retreat, and the sound of her heels clacking on the tiled floor grew distant. "Addison," he tried again, louder, though he knew it was useless. He shoved the blankets on the bed aside, sending the few cards and game pieces that remained flying. His mother and Mark scooted back from the bed, jerking in surprise at his sudden shift to action as he ripped the nasal cannula and heart monitor off.

"Derek, what are you doing?" Sarah said, but it was all a blur as he forced himself to his feet. The world seemed to shiver for a moment until gravity settled in and clamped shackles around his bones. He felt nauseated. For a moment. Nauseated. He drew the back of his palm up to his mouth, breathing into his skin before he recovered. He wrapped his fingers around the IV pole and took a stuttering step forward. Everything settled, and he grew steadier in his movements, though his stomach continued to churn. He had to find her.

"Addison didn't know about any of this?" Derek said as he pushed toward the door. Meredith had gotten up in a flash and fought to keep his path clear of Monopoly bits, but he couldn't think straight. He just knew everything had gone wrong, and the pleased sense of well-being he'd slowly developed in the past few hours slipped away. He kept moving.

"I didn't think to call her when I was at the airport," Ellen said. "I thought she'd already be here."

"She wasn't picking up her cell," Mark said. "I tried."

"I need to tell her," Derek said. "I need to talk to her." He shared a look at Meredith, who looked like she wanted to follow, but she also understood. She blinked, tilting her head in a small nod. His family sat in a shell-shocked ring around the room and didn't get up.

He drove himself into the hallway and started walking in the direction she'd disappeared, unable to stop the wry bark of laughter that rumbled through him. Why did he always end up chasing women when he couldn't. Fucking. Chase them. He pushed onward, as fast as his legs would allow, a rather brisk pace that a surge of adrenaline aided. People stared at him in the hallway, but he didn't care. He just… He rounded the corner, but Addison had long since disappeared, and he darted toward the nearest nurses' station.

Nurse Tyler stood there, looking Derek up and down as Derek walked up to the counter. Derek clutched at the molding desperately and fought for his breath. Oxygen sent hot, jabbing pokers sliding down into his lungs. He reached over the edge of the desk and grabbed at the phone cradle, only to miss. "Hand me the phone," Derek demanded.

Tyler blinked and picked up the receiver.

"The whole phone," Derek said, panting.

Tyler put the phone cradle on the ledge as well, and Derek jammed his fingers down on the numbers. He hoped she hadn't changed her cell phone number. He hadn't even thought to ask Mark, and now it was too late, and she was getting away, had gotten away already. The phone rang, rang, rang, and Derek leaned against the desk as his body started to scold him for the activity he'd just used to torture it. He felt an intense need to sit, but he vetoed the urge and hung onto the countertop with white, clutching fingers and shaky muscles.

"What is it? I'm not on call," a weary, warbling voice said on the other end of the line.

"Addison," Derek said, just a breath into the phone more than a vocalization. "Where are you?"

Silence on the other end of the line greeted him before a small, hesitant, "Derek?" leaked into the speaker.

"Addison," he said. "I'm going to search the whole damned hospital if you don't tell me where you are."

"Not now," she said, her tone dipping low into the weary tone she'd started to use when their fighting hadn't been fighting anymore, just surrender and avoidance. Not now, Derek. Let's not talk about this now.

"Addison… Saying not now is how we got to where we ended up. Tell me where you are."

"But you just had surgery."

"I did," he said, clutching the phone. "And I'm probably going to make myself sick by the time I find you if you don't tell me now."

Silence gripped the line, and he realized he had lied to her, lied deeply. He was already sick, already felt sick. His stomach churned, whether from the movement or the turmoil, he had no idea, but he didn't think he'd be able to do much more chasing regardless of what she said. Please, he thought. Please let me finish this, he prayed silently as he closed his eyes and waited. He needed to be done. He needed to put the period at the end of the chapter he'd finished, and he couldn't do that if she ran away, if she wouldn't speak to him. If she left him hanging.

She had every right to, though. Every right to never speak to him again.

"I'm…" she said. "The closet. I'm in the supply closet, Derek."

He blinked and looked up as relief sucked him down into a brief, shivering sigh of relief. The supply closet was only forty feet away. He looked at Tyler. Tyler shrugged.

"Stay," he said into the phone, and then he hung it up.

When he pushed himself out of the sanctuary of the nurses' station, his pace started to drag, which frustrated him, but at least he hadn't turned to jelly and fallen. Yesterday, had he tried something stupid like chasing a woman down hallways longer than football fields, he imagined he would have been down for the count no matter what he had to say, no matter what he thought he needed. Tiredness seeped into every muscle, but he could manage. He could manage it. He felt like he'd worked out at the gym for the first time in weeks, not like he'd run a marathon and just couldn't go on. Wobbly, frustrating weakness, he could deal with.

He came up to the supply closet door, knocking softly before he turned the knob and walked through, IV pole and all. Addison sat crouched in the darkness on an overturned bucket, her face in her hands. Shelving buried in boxes and plastic bags and linens gripped the room on three sides, leaving only the wall housing the door barren of supplies. The sharp smell of plastic and cleaner tickled at him, but didn't quite mask the vague hint of citrus floating underneath. Her favorite perfume.

"Addison," he said as he stared at the room. He couldn't stand for this talk, couldn't make himself keep standing forever. He pondered the floor. It seemed… It seemed a long way down from where he stood, intimidating, but that only sent a snarling jag of anger through him. He could sit on the fucking floor. He wheeled over to Addison, shoving the pole against the shelving, and let himself sink to his knees, then to his butt, using the IV pole for support.

Her eyes widened as she launched up from the bucket and reached out to steady him. "Derek, Derek, don't," she commanded shrilly. "You're…"

He sighed as his body settled against the cold floor tiles, his back to the shelving opposite the bucket Addison had used as a perch. He had no idea how he was going to get up again. None. But sitting down had been fine. "I'm fine, Addison," he said. His muscles quivered now that he wasn't asking them to do anything but hold him upright, and he pulled in breath after breath to replenish what he'd lost.

Addison sat back down. "I don't even know where to start," she said, her tone more upset and crying than wry. She stared at him over the tips of her knees, her face wet and shimmering in the dim lighting. She sniffled, and her blouse seemed to shiver with the sobs she held back. She looked like she wanted to reach out and touch him, do something, but couldn't figure out what was appropriate, and so she just watched, her gaze wandering between his IV pole, as if she thought she could guess what drugs were mixed in with the saline, to his pajamas and his heaving frame, to his hairline, or, lack thereof. He'd never felt more stripped in his life.

"Car accident," he said softly, trying to overcome the weight of her stare. "I hit my head. I'm fine, now, Addison. Really."

"Did they… Are you on…"

"Yeah," he said. "Dilantin. Codeine. You name it. I'm a pharmacy. I won't be able to operate for a while." Months, a small voice whined in the back of his mind. He wouldn't be able to operate for months.

Addison nodded, but at least she didn't offer condolences. He didn't think he could take that from her, no matter what his reasons for chasing her. He sighed and ran his hands down his shins, pulling his knees up to his chest, only slightly gratified to discover that now that he was sitting and recuperating from the exertion of chasing her, the undertow of sleep hadn't snaked around his ankles and yanked him into the water. He just felt… Like he'd exercised more than he should have. Much more.

He wiped his hands over his face, trying to think of something else to say, anything. He'd been so sure when he'd chased her that they needed to talk. Needed to… Something. And now that he had an opportunity, the words wouldn't come. Hey, Addison. I'm marrying Meredith. Have a nice life. Except that was mean, and he didn't really mean it. Not anymore. Hey, Addison. I'm sorry. Except he wasn't sorry about marrying Meredith. He could never be sorry. And everything else between seemed like he was rubbing it in or talking to her out of spite. He wasn't.

He just wanted… He didn't know what he wanted anymore. He'd been so sure, and now he wasn't. He just wasn't.

"I'm… I didn't mean to barge in," Addison said. She wiped a fresh layer of tears away with the backs of her fingers. "They're not my family anymore. Obviously."

"I'm sorry you had to find out that way."

Addison nodded as she caressed her naked ring finger. "When?"

It could have meant a lot of things. When did this happen? When did my ex-husband figure out his life? When did he propose? When did he first decide to propose? But Derek knew. Innately. None of those was what she meant.

"We're thinking May," he said, his voice a low murmur.

"Oh," she said. "That's great." She sighed. The space between them thrummed with tension. The whisper of the air ducts and the soft sounds of her hitched breathing mingled, giving the silence between them distressed, grieving quality. He squeezed his knees with his fingers.

"How was…" he began, closing his eyes. "How was LA?"

She looked up. "You knew I was in LA?"

"Mark told me."

"Oh," she said. She shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know how I liked LA. It was different."

"How are Naomi and Sam?"

"Divorced."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Addison said. "Who isn't these days?"

He felt the dig like a blade between his ribs. You failed. You failed, you failed, you failed. He inhaled, resting his head against his forearms.

He could remember Addison on their wedding day. She'd walked down the aisle of the church, glowing, smiling. October had been their month. The air outside had been balmy, not cold, not hot, and the breeze curling through the wind tunnels of New York streets had made the air seem fresh and new despite how used it had been. He'd been a jumble of nerves with no outlet, because he hadn't wanted to admit how truly frazzled he'd been.

_Relax, man. _

_I'm getting married._

_I know. Congratulations._

_I'm getting married, Mark._

_Breathe._

She'd stepped up next to him before the altar, smiling. They'd gotten married. They'd said their vows, exchanged the rings, and gotten married in front of hundreds of guests. They'd kissed. His stomach had felt like forty-five million moths had been released inside and were struggling to get out. But he'd been sure.

I love you. They'd both said it. They'd both meant it. At the time, they had. Despite his nerves, despite everything, he'd been sure when he'd said I do. When he'd slipped the ring on her finger, he'd been sure. He'd been sure of a lot of things. Beyond the sex, beyond the romance, Addison had been his best friend. Beyond Mark, even. She'd slipped deep into his life, slowly, but steadily. Should he have known then, that in barely more than a decade, he'd be sitting next to Addison in a closet, separated and moving on? Should he? He'd thought the ridiculous burning passion found in romance novels and movies, where a mash of guttural, needing words, or a swell of poignant strings always heralded a long, scorching love scene, had been wishful thinking dreamed up by artists. He'd known on some base level that true love existed. He'd loved Addison, and hadn't been able to imagine wanting anything else at the time. It hadn't been a consuming sort of fire, but it'd been deep and full, and he imagined most people went through life with just that and were more than happy. He'd loved Addison. And he'd been sure.

That was all he knew.

"You took Meredith to meet your family," she said, snapping him back into the room like he'd reached the end of a tether.

He stared at her. He'd loved her, and, despite everything, despite what she'd done to him, he didn't wish her ill. "Yes, I did," he said, at the same time, unwilling to sugarcoat anything.

"Mark and I had this stupid bet…"

"I know."

"Mark told you that, too?"

"Yes," he said.

"He tells you a lot lately."

"He's been…" Derek paused, searching for a word to describe the current situation. They weren't okay. He didn't think they'd ever get back to where they had been. But… "He's been around."

"I had to get out of town," Addison said. "I… I broke the bet before Mark did. I thought I wanted… I don't know what I wanted. I made such a mess of things. And you took Meredith to meet your family. And I just had to leave."

Addison had sat in the room, not stopping him from packing two mornings after, but not letting him depart in peace either. _Please, Derek. Please, can we try to work this out?_ He'd shoved his things into his suitcase, barely paying attention to what he was including. Shove, twist, shove, shove, slam. His whole body had been racked with tension as he'd stood with his back to her, cramming shirt after shirt into the tight space. He'd used his large suitcase. The one for long vacations, not for overnight consults. She had to have noticed, because she'd kept whimpering. _I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry. He was just here._ He'd been unwilling to look at her, unwilling to look at her blotched, mascara-stained face. His stomach had roiled, and he hadn't been able to look at her because he'd been sure. Not that looking at her would have made him stay, but sure that looking at her would have made him throw up. She'd said I'm sorry, over and over and over, and all he'd been able to hear was her moans. Moans that should have been for him. Except the words had all been a singular, quivering syllable. _Mark. Mark, Mark, Mark. _

When he'd fled, he'd left his house key on the coffee table for her to find, and then he'd gone without a clue where he was going. He'd been in a motel when he'd received Chief Webber's job offer over his cell phone. A motel. He'd thought about crashing at one of his sisters' houses. Or his mother's. In the end, he'd wound up driving until he'd been too tired to drive anymore. And then he'd stopped.

"It's understandable," Derek said.

Addison stared at him for a long moment. Her breaths sharpened, her lower lip quivered, and she shifted from calm to quiet sobbing. "Every guy I've ever wanted doesn't seem to want me," she said.

"Oh, Addison," he replied, more of a breath than a set of words. He shifted, gingerly using his hands to push himself across the floor. He leaned up and wrapped his arms around her. She pushed against him. If she'd really wanted to, she could have easily launched herself away. His grip wasn't tight, and he was weakened to begin with. But she didn't. She didn't launch herself away as his hands settled against her, and he started to rub her back. He put pressure on her shoulder, trying to get her to… She moved. She shifted down off the overturned bucket and settled into his embrace, clutching at his shirt like he was the only thing familiar left in a sea of uncertainty.

"Am I that bad? Is it me? Am I a horrible person?" she whispered, and then she looked up at him. Her hand went to his cheek, brushing him softly. It snaked past his ear, and he felt her fingers on his scalp. It was the first time she'd touched him since he'd cheated on her, and he tensed as she made herself intimate with his weakness.

"Look at me," she said, self-flagellating laughter burbling over her lips as her expression darkened. "I'm sitting here when you're… you're… And all I can think about is that I had you, you're marrying the perfect twelve year old over me, and I don't understand how that could happen. I am horrible. I am. I'm a horrible person, and karma hates me."

Derek clutched her wrist and pulled her hand away from him as self-conscious embarrassment threatened to overflow. He was sitting on a floor in a supply closet jammed between a bucket, his ex-wife, and his IV pole, unsure of how he was ever going to get up again. He wore dirty, soiled pajamas, and, though no one had said a word, he suspected he'd started to smell a bit unpleasant. His scalp had been shaved and bore an ugly scar to the world. A nametag circled his left wrist, making him look thin and waiflike and labeled.

"Addison, you're not a horrible person," he said, struggling to stuff his feelings away. She was upset. She was upset, and he had to… They needed to talk about this. Even if she made it painfully obvious that she was cognizant of his condition.

"Is it me?"

"Addison. No," he said. He raised his hand, stroked his fingers on her jaw line, and guided her gaze to meet his eyes. His eyes, and not his scar, or his IV line, or the name bracelet on his wrist. "Look at me. Addison. Addi. What happened to us…" He took a breath. "That was me," he said. "I stopped being there, and you stopped fighting for me to be there, and we disintegrated. Something wasn't right with me. Something wasn't right for a long, long time. So long that I didn't know it anymore. It bled into our marriage when I threw myself into my work, and I'm sorry. I was absent, and I'm sorry. What happened to our marriage was as much my fault as it was yours. You may have put in the last nail, but I built the coffin, Addi. It was my fault. I'm the one that failed."

"I could have fought harder," she whispered. "I let you do it until it was too late. I was so stupid."

He rubbed her back, trying to ignore the weird, buzzing feeling settling in. Turmoil he couldn't identify. He'd already come to terms with the collapse of his marriage, accepted that it was finished, slipped into memory. This woman had been his best friend and his lover for eleven years. Had been. They were speaking about their marriage in the past tense. Looking at the war zone after the fight had long since passed into dust, and all that remained were scattered, bloody pieces to analyze.

He sighed.

It was a failure. It would always be a failure that cut him to the bone and deeper. Except, now, mashed in with the grief over something lost, was something else. Thankfulness. Thankfulness for something gained. Because if he hadn't let his life be shaped by his time with Addison, he doubted he ever would have ended up at Joe's bar the night before Meredith's first shift.

He couldn't imagine himself anymore without Meredith. She made even the mundane things in life become new and thrilling and happy. He found enjoyment in simply watching her smile. And his life, since he'd met her, despite everything, despite all the twists and turns and winding conflict, didn't seem nearly so tangled anymore.

Addison had brought him to where he was now. Brain injury aside, he couldn't say anything other than thank you, despite the twisting feeling in his gut that told him even if he accepted it and cherished the prosperity in the wake of disaster, even if he harbored no regrets or doubts, he wasn't sure he'd ever be unaffected when he stared at the pieces he'd left behind.

"You love her," Addison whispered against his shoulder.

"I do, Addison," he replied. "I love her very much. I'm sorry that hurts you."

"Did you ever love me?" she asked.

He stared at her. "I loved you, Addison."

"Just not like her."

"Not like Meredith," he agreed.

"I loved you, too, Derek. I really did. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about Mark."

He sighed. "I know. We were broken before that."

"I know."

He'd apologized to Addison before for his infidelity. He'd apologized, and he'd meant it, but then he'd barbed it at the end, too shocked at Mark's appearance to do anything other than snap. He wanted to say it and mean it without any interruptions. "I'm sorry for how I treated you when you tried to reconcile with me," he said. "I had an emotional affair. And then I actually cheated. In the end, I cheated. And there's no excuse for that. I lead us both on for months. I shouldn't have. I mean it. I'm very sorry."

"When do you think it happened?" she said softly.

It. Their marriage. The implosion. He swallowed.

"I don't know," he said. "I've been empty for a long time. I didn't… I didn't realize it until I moved out here. I love it here."

She clutched at his shirt. "I hate it. I hate it so much."

"Maybe you should move, Addison," he said, hugging her as tightly as he could manage. She curled into him, but it wasn't like before, like when they'd been married. The romance was dead and gone, and all he found was platonic warmth between them despite their history. "Seattle was about me. You don't have to stay here."

"I know," she said.

"That's what the trip to LA was for, wasn't it? You're thinking of leaving."

"I am," she replied. "There's nothing for me here, Derek. And I can't… I can't go back to Manhattan."

"I don't fit there anymore, either," he said.

"Sometimes, I wonder if I fit anywhere."

"You'll find it, Addison," he said. "You'll find your place. And you'll find the person who was really meant for you."

"If there is someone."

"There is," he assured her. "I just know it isn't me."

"Do you regret our marriage?"

"No," he said.

"I don't either," she replied.

They tumbled into silence. She rested against him, breathing softly against his neck, and for a long procession of moments, they grieved. Together. Quiet. Derek and Addison weren't Derek and Addison anymore. They both knew it and accepted it. He supposed that was the best he'd ever get. He felt relieved. Relieved that she'd allowed him to truly make his peace. To explain how he felt. That she could understand that they hadn't made a mistake in walking down the aisle, even though it hadn't worked out. He sighed, letting his eyelids droop shut as he inhaled the citrus scent of her skin. She wrapped her arms around his waist, and exhaustion plowed over him, exhaustion he hadn't felt at all before.

On a deep, innate level, he knew it wasn't from the surgery at all. It was just… emotional tiredness. He'd been dragging himself through the wringer almost every day. Yelling at Mark, apologizing to Addison, making peace with Addison about Meredith, wallowing in his own self-pity, talking about weddings and children and his and Meredith's future, sparring with his mother. Now, he just felt tired. A deep, throbbing sort of tired that he'd felt only a few times before. Once in the weeks that had followed finding Addison with Mark, once when he'd forced himself to choose Addison over Meredith, once when he'd finally signed the papers.

He leaned his nose down into her hair and sighed, trying to keep the weight from tugging him down into collapse. He didn't know how long they sat there, didn't know how many moments the passing time had glutted on. Long enough for his muscles to start aching from not moving. The spell didn't break until a crowd of voices similar to a gaggle of honking geese wobbled past the doorway.

Addison twitched and released him, sniffling. She wiped her face, her eyes. She twisted her body, shifting her weight back onto her spiky heels with grace and balance. She stood over him, arms crossed, trying to put herself back together and failing. "Well, I…"

"Yeah," he replied.

She stuck her hand out. He took her smooth palm in his grasp, inhaled deeply, and pushed up with his other hand. His biceps shook with strain as he tried to jam enough force through his body to straighten up into a standing position from a crouch. He didn't make it, but she grabbed him under the shoulders, he toppled forward against her, and after he caught his breath, he righted himself, trying to stave off the embarrassment he felt at needing her to catch him.

She didn't comment on his lack of grace, or the way his body wasn't working like it should have. She turned to leave, and it saddened him that she'd be walking away from their mess with nothing. With no one.

_I figured if she didn't want to be with me, she shouldn't have to feel guilty about it._

"Hey, Addi?" he called as her manicured hand wrapped around the doorknob.

"What?" she said.

"Mark lied," he said. "About the bet. He lied."

"What do you mean?"

"He caught you… You know. And he didn't want you to feel guilty," Derek explained.

"Oh, Derek," she whispered. Tears that she'd successfully quelled started to leak again, and she brushed frantically at her face.

He gave her a wan grin. "You didn't hear it from me," he said.

She nodded, and then she fled. He didn't know if he'd done the right thing, if he shouldn't have stuck his nose in, but he figured she could at least do what she wanted with all the facts instead of wandering off to LA, thinking Mark didn't want her anymore.

He stood in the dimness for a few more moments, collecting his thoughts, his breath, and everything else that had been scattered by the discussion. He turned toward one of the shelves. Plastic-sheathed pillows sat stacked in a tight row, and he buried his face into them, resting his head as his whole body started to shake. The dim, quiet closet relieved him, comforted him. He didn't want to go back out into the glare, into the assault of staring and whispers and cheerful hellos. He didn't want to walk or return to the noise of his family. He didn't want to do anything.

He wanted to go home.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed away from the shelf and sighed. The walk back to his room was wrought with awkwardness. He shuffled along, moving more slowly than he'd moved before when he'd been chasing Addison. A crowd of nurses hovered at the station by the closet, and he knew. He knew they'd been whispering, staring at the door while he and Addison had had their discussion, that a whole new collection of McDreamy rumors would be cutting a swath through the hallways of Seattle Grace soon enough. He scaled the wall, feeling like he'd been sent through a garbage compactor by the time he set foot back in his room.

Meredith lay on his bed, reading a book propped up against her knees. She gave him a ghost of a smile when she looked up. "Hey."

"Hey," he replied as he glanced around at the empty room.

"Your family left," she said as she slammed her book shut and put it on the bed beside her. "They figured after you got back we probably would want some alone time. Are you…?"

"I'm okay, Mere," he said. He hobbled to the bed and sat down on the edge. "Tired. But okay."

"Is she okay?"

"No. But she will be. I think we… I think we're finally through."

"You weren't through before?" Meredith said. Her voice held curiosity, not condemnation.

"I needed to tell her I was sorry. I needed to tell her that and mean it, no interruptions."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. It's done. I'm okay."

"Okay," she said. She scooted to the edge of the bed, wrapped her arms around him, and he couldn't stop the shudder that tore through his frame. "Derek?"

"I want to go home, Mere," he said tiredly.

"One more day, Derek," she said. "You can make it. Dr. Weller stopped by. He said the MRI looked great."

Derek sighed. A swell of relief slammed into him, and his eyes dipped shut. His eyes stung, but tears seemed beyond him for the moment. Emotional whiplash. He was pretty sure he was done. Done for a while. Done feeling.

Meredith rubbed his back, and he leaned into her. Leaned into her heat. Her quiet support seemed still and silent to the churning tumble of everything else. He dipped his head against her shoulder and kissed her in the crook of her neck, relishing the soft taste of her skin. She gasped as he pushed down her shoulder, moving the neckline of her shirt with him. The warmth of her reached into him and tore apart the chill.

"Mere, will you…" he whispered against her skin.

"What?" she said.

"Shower. I feel… I need…"

"Sure," she said. "Do you want help?"

"No. I think I can…" he replied. "Just sit with me?" He pulled away from her.

"I can do that," she said. "I'll go get a shower cap for you."

She left as he heaved himself to his feet and released his intravenous line from the catheter in his wrist. He walked into the bathroom in a daze. She returned in moments, and he sat down on the toilet seat while she taped his wrist with scrutiny she usually saved for cutting someone open. Her fingertips brushed the lines of surgical tape around his wrist and upper forearm, checking for kinks or holes. The touch sent a shiver of needing through his frame. She smiled.

"What?" he said as he stood up.

"I love you," she replied. "I really, really do."

He smiled at her. "I love you, too."

She handed him a shower cap she'd opened, and as he stepped into the shower, he saw her sit down on the toilet seat with a book. He stripped off his dirty clothes, feeling marginal relief from just peeling the soiled, warm cotton away from his skin. He was happy. Happy that she hadn't seemed to expect a big production. Stripping. Washing himself off without her help. He loved her. But right then? Right that moment? He felt tired, unattractive, and weak, and if he could bathe himself, finally, he'd like to.

He put on the shower cap and lumbered to the faucet, spending only moments adjusting the water before he had sheets of warmth pelting him. Steam curled around him, and he sighed as everything fell away from him. He leaned against the wall and let it. For a long time. Not out of necessity, but because the spray of water relaxed him. It was gratifying to be able to relax into it and not worry about falling down.

He smiled. He wasn't worried about falling down at all, he realized. He'd gotten tired from moving around that morning, from chasing Addison, from sitting and standing and walking back, but the fatigue hadn't seemed to linger too long after he'd stopped to rest. That was a relief. It was like he'd worked his way out of a deficit and was finally starting to accrue something again. Something that made him whole.

He washed himself off, working the soap against his muscles, rubbing in deep, massaging circles that made everything seem to loosen. The coil of emotional wreckage from the last few days began to untwist. He watched the swirls of water as they meandered to the drain, imagining it was everything. Everything that had upset him. Mark. Addison. His mother. Being sick and stared at.

"Doing okay?" Meredith called.

"Yeah," he said, his voice low and breathy as he leaned against the wall again and let the water strip the suds away from him. His muscles quivered, and behind his eyelids, he found peace and sanctuary. He wanted to dip his head under the spray and let the thunder take the rest of the world away, but he didn't. The shower cap might not hold up so well under direct assault. He settled for the leaning. With his ear pressed against the wall, the beat of the water seemed like a roar and a rush, and the tiles were cool against the heat of his skin.

It was an idle thought that brought her into his sanctuary with him. Early on, when they'd just started dating, and there'd still been a tense sort of unfamiliarity lingering between them, he'd been taking a shower, and she'd walked in, announcing her presence, nervously saying she just wanted to brush her teeth and then she'd be gone.

_I'm sorry. I'll be out of here really fast_, she'd babbled_. Izzie left out some chocolate frosty cupcake things, which I stupidly tried. I have to get rid of the aftertaste. It's all nutty and gooky, and it's sticking to the back of my throat. I'm hoping mint will cure it. Anyway, I'm not trying to barge in or anything. Not that I barged. I did knock. And you said it was okay. I hope it was. Okay, I mean. Because, I mean, I've seen you. But showers are sort of different. And I'm not trying to intrude on your privacy or anything. Just… Teeth. You know. They need cleaning. Ick._

He'd slid the door open and poked his head out, quietly amused by her rambling. _You could join me_, he'd suggested. She'd stared at him, wide-eyed, toothbrush dangling from her mouth.

He grinned at the memory. The water pelted down around him, and he stood there, engrossed in the recollection, his breaths shortening. Pressure began to pulse, low and steady in his groin, as he remembered the curve of her thigh, the way she'd stepped in foot first, tantalizing him before she'd gifted him with a full view. He sighed as the excitement he'd quashed before coursed back into his veins.

"Mere," he called over the rush of the water, "Do you want… Do you want to come in?"

He leaned against the wall in the silence that followed. The spark of arousal he'd felt drained quickly in the crush of sudden nerves. He hadn't had sex with Meredith in a week. He wasn't even sure he could. He just knew he wanted it. He'd known all morning that he did. But it was different, now. He was weak. It wasn't even self-deprecation. It was a fact. He was weak. He wasn't sure what he could manage even if he was physically able. And he looked…

He didn't look sexy anymore.

"To help?" Meredith asked after a long pause.

"No. I want to… Um," he said, and he felt the blush creeping over his cheeks even under the heat of the water. He didn't know why it was suddenly a big deal. Sex. They'd talked about it all week in both veiled and direct ways. He started to shiver despite the heat. He hadn't really thought this through that much. If she didn't want to, or if he couldn't, that would really put a damper on things, possibly making it even worse when they got home and tried to resume something resembling a normal sex life.

Meredith didn't leave him stranded in the doubting for more than a few seconds. "Okay," she said as she stepped into the shower with him, already naked.

His breath fell away from him at the sight of her. She had toned, curvy shoulders. Her body narrowed slightly before swelling at the hips and tapering down to her delicate feet and little toes. In the time that she'd changed out of her clothes, her nipples had already perked up, crowning the swell of her breasts, and she looked… She looked beautiful.

Water droplets clung to subtle hairs, only to join the stream sliding down her body when she stepped into the spray with him and wrapped her arms around his waist. "You mean sex, right? Not just company?" she asked, direct, to the point, not nervous at all. "Either is okay, Derek."

He clasped her shoulders with his fingers, squeezing before he let his grip roam lower, down her back to the curve of her ass. "Oh, I meant sex," he said. He kissed her on the lips, plunging with his tongue as if he could pull the taste of her back inside himself. Her panting whispered against the walls as he backed her up against the tiles and roamed down the side of her neck with his lips, nibbling on her clavicle, her shoulder. "Definitely sex," he added, her lack of hesitation bolstering his confidence more than any reassurance or murmured encouragement ever could.

The water made their skin slide together as he ground into her, instinctual. Her fingertips trailed down the curve of his spine, and he sighed, sighed into her mouth between kisses. His ribcage rippled with the strain of breathing, not because his motions tired him, but because this was Meredith, he hadn't been with her in a week, and suddenly he found he could want her again. The last shower, when she'd stripped in front of him, he could remember thinking she was beautiful, but it hadn't done a thing for him. He'd been tired, upset, depressed, sick, and it hadn't done a thing. It did things now. It did lots and lots of things.

He tilted his head back as she licked her way up his neck. The water thundered down around them, warm, inviting, like a cocoon. The sounds of the hospital were gone, replaced only by the roar, and the roar itself became a sort of silence.

"Jesus, Mere," he wheezed when her roaming grip brushed against his hips and found home. He thrust into her hand as she wrapped her fingers around his length. She cupped him, kneaded him, and he couldn't hold onto reason. The throbbing pressure he'd lost before began to climb into something almost unbearable, and he pushed against her, jamming her hands between his groin and her abdomen as he slammed them into the wall. He reached over her head and braced himself against the tiles on the wall, raining breathy, shivery kisses down against her when he could manage them between his struggles for air.

She laughed softly, kissing him, licking him, tasting him. "God, I missed you," she moaned as he pressed into her again, stopping her ministrations until he pulled away to give her room again.

"I missed you, too," he agreed, breathless, breathless, burning. "And I really missed wanting you."

"There was definitely missing involved," Meredith whispered. She stopped kneading him, leaning back against the wall, her head hitting the tiles with a soft, dull thunk. She sighed, and her fingers tickled his hips, his ribs, his chest. "When did you?" she said between pants, only to devolve into a moan when he slipped his fingers between her thighs and rubbed her.

"Earlier this morning," he said. "It was embarrassing."

She laughed. "Oh, Derek. You could have told everyone to leave."

"Yeah, and explaining why would have been so fun for me," he growled, withdrawing his hands.

"No," she hissed, drawing him back to her. "Touch me."

He laughed, descending on her mouth. She tasted like his mint toothpaste. He delved, devoting careful attention to every bump and cavern, every taste bud. Her slippery skin danced against his. She sucked on his lower lip, moaning as he pulled away to take a breath.

"Please, Derek," she whispered, her breaths hot and desperate. "Take me, now."

The words fell against his ears like salve. He was hard, and ready, and just as desperate as she sounded. Desperate to feel her slick insides clenched around him, desperate to feel the freefall of the end, when he would spill himself inside her. He panted, lowering his hands past the curve of her ass and sweeping under her thighs. He squeezed her quads.

It wasn't until he tried to lift her that reality came crashing back. He technically wasn't supposed to be lifting anything more than five pounds, and Meredith, light as she was, was a far, far greater weight than that. But she was shorter. She was shorter, and he'd never be able to… He pulled her up anyway, his muscles quivering as he held her at the right height and angled to push into her. She gasped, flexing her knees against his waist as he sheathed himself with her and flattened her back against the wall.

He felt like he was going to die as her wet, slick heat slipped around him to the hilt. Everything inside of him throbbed, and want, want for her, want for her heat and her taste and her sex sucked him down into a cyclone.

"Oh," she moaned, leaning back against the wall, arching into him, as he fought with himself, fought to catch his breath. He leaned forward, kissing her shoulder. Her breasts mashed into him, and he wanted to move, he wanted it so badly that black, fuzzy spots started to overwhelm him, sending him to a dim, surreal place hugged with desire and desperation, but sliced by weakness he couldn't overcome. He wanted to go, but just holding her up had pushed him to his limits.

Meredith squeezed around him, and he moaned, deep and throaty. She rocked a little in his grasp, obviously as hungry for movement as he was, but he couldn't. He couldn't do it. The thought of trying to move, trying to thrust made him quiver. His fingers slipped along the wet skin of her thighs as he fought to keep his grip, panting, not from desire, but because he just wasn't strong enough to do this yet, wasn't strong enough at all. He sucked in air, sucked it down in choking swallows as he leaned his forehead against the wall.

She kissed his shoulder, but she stilled, as if she realized that his lack of movement wasn't some sort of game, wasn't foreplay, wasn't anything but failure. "Derek?" she whispered.

"I can't," he murmured into her neck as heat flushed his skin. "I can't, I'm sorry. I can't… You're… I can't."

What he wanted didn't mesh at all with what he could do, it seemed. In what was the hardest act of aborted sex he'd ever experienced, he pulled out and let her feet slip to the ground. He leaned against the wall, letting the hot water pour down his back, his chest.

"I can't lift you," he said, sighing so heavily it rolled down his entire spine. He tried to ignore the embarrassing need to push himself against something, anything to alleviate the tension in his groin. Steam made the air thick and hard to process, which only made breathing more difficult. He felt awful. Awful for leading her on, awful for not being able to follow through, and awful because he couldn't stop wanting her even then, and he didn't want to jack off to fix it while she was just standing there, her gray eyes peering at him under the hood of dark, wet lashes.

For a few seconds, she regarded him in silence, and then she smiled. The water roared. "Is that all?"

"What?" he said, panting. "What do you mean, is that all? Yes, that's all." He wouldn't do this in a hospital bed. He wouldn't. Not with his family loitering god knew where, while he was under constant observation by nurses and doctors who could walk in at any time. He was already on display enough. Which left what, exactly?

"Do you still want to?"

"Yes," he hissed. "God, yes, Mere."

She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. She kissed his lips, his chin, his throat, his pectorals, tilting up and down on her toes. Desire which had barely waned despite his embarrassment started a slow crawl toward unbearable. He plunged his fingers into the wet tendrils of her hair, ground against her helplessly, groaned. "Mere, please, I don't want you to…" His voice fell away as she touched him, sliding a nail up along the underside of his erection. All he could manage was a low, rumbling groan. I don't want you to make this a service, he'd meant to say.

He wanted to have her, wanted to move with her, wanted to be inside her. He wanted to love her. Again. Like he had before. The way that'd made her quiver and scream and melt. He didn't want to get jerked off like an invalid. He just… God. She kissed him, sending a flare of sensation sprawling through his body like exploding fireworks. Again, again, again.

"I'm not going to," she answered his unfinished request. Her own words were breathless, needing, quivering with desire. She blinked, her body shuddered, and he realized he'd driven her to the same state he found himself in. Needing. Needing badly, but not wanting anything less than connection, flesh to flesh, him inside her, buried, groaning, gasping. But, unlike him, she didn't sound frustrated.

Her wet fingers slipped against his hips as she drowned him with kiss after desperate kiss. He followed her. She shifted him around, guiding him with light pressure, and they twisted to the other end of the shower like a pair of dancers in a twirl. She pushed him down onto the bench at the rear of the shower, lifting her knees up onto the bench to straddle him only for a moment before she slipped down on top of him again, and he was inside. Inside her. His breath caught, and he wrapped his arms around her waist to support her.

The spray that fell down around them was a hot, misting remnant of the main runoff from the showerhead, keeping them damp and slick and warm. She slid up his legs, grinding more deeply against him, only to settle. He touched everything inside her, everything. There was nowhere left to go. She tightened around him and laced her hands together behind his shoulders, resting against him. It was an awkward position, awkward for fast, desperate movement, awkward for pistoning, driving thrusts that would bring their lovemaking to completion in moments, but perfect, perfect for the sort of loving he needed then, the sort of loving he wanted to give, the sort of loving he could give. Slow. Attentive.

"You're very resourceful," he said, panting. Sitting. They hadn't really tried chairs before. The angling wasn't exactly intuitive, and it wasn't the best position for either of them to move very much. When he and Meredith had sex, there was usually a lot of movement. A lot. She rocked against him, squeezing herself along his length in a way that made him sigh and lose track of the world. Rational thought tumbled away, resettling only after a shivery, precarious moment where he thought his heart would stop.

"I totally am," she agreed. "This is sort of like a lotus, I think. Well, not really." She panted. "I'm kind of kneeling more than lotusing, I guess. Is lotusing a word?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Kama Sutra?"

"Don't ask."

He laughed. "Well, you are very flexible," he said as he dipped his head and kissed her.

"I am," she purred.

She shifted, moving her lower torso in tight, slow circles. He wasn't in a position to do much more than receive, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter at all, because he was inside of her. He was home. And he no longer felt any sort of pressure to perform, any sort of pressure to keep going. He just let it take him.

The moments slid away from him into a blur of needing as she rolled her torso into him like a wave. She pushed herself against him, pulling with her own arms to support herself, freeing him to do other things like petting, squeezing, caressing. Her breasts were full and round and heaving. He touched them, laving her chest, her neck, her lips with kisses until he couldn't think anymore, until every breath falling from his lips was a grunt or a groan or a moan. The pressure built, slowly, more slowly than before. Either from the pace or the codeine or whatever, he didn't care by the end. He just needed to finish.

She gasped, her breaths falling against his face. Her fingers clutched the skin of his neck, his shoulders, wherever she roamed. Her body quivered, and then she tensed, leaning into him, over his shoulder. A long, low moan fell from her lips, her grip went slack, and he held her up, held her up despite the fire burning his coherency into dust. "Oh, fuck, Derek, yes," she chanted until it became a mantra. "Yes. Fuck. Yes, yes, yes." She shivered in his grip, shivered like a leaf, and he felt her tense around him, felt her rapid throbbing up and down his length. He leaned back, unable to stop the woeful groan that pealed from his lips, not wanting to stop it. She shook and shook and shook. It was a quiet orgasm, but no less intense than anything he'd ever watched her experience before. It took her several moments to start moving again.

"Are you close?" she whispered as she licked a trail past his ear. Her fingers brushed his face, pushing him back into a muted arch that presented his ribcage to her. She splayed her palms against the curls just over his groin and slid up, up, up against his torso. He caught himself, throwing his hands behind him, resting his weight on his quivering limbs.

"Yes," he managed in the whining blur. Desperation pulsed like a sound behind his ears until it became a long, continuous, shrieking wail, and all he wanted was to finish it. "Mere," he said, his voice throaty and raw from… Everything. His eyes slipped shut as she took advantage of the open angle to slide more vigorously against him. He felt himself shift inside her, felt the tightening of everything.

His whole body tensed, and for a long parade of moments, she continued moving with no results. He hung there, stuck on the precipice until he couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but moan her name, again, again, again. He sat up straight, and in desperation, pulled her into him, mashing his torso to hers. The warmth of her skin burned against him, hot and heaving. He ran his hands through her wet hair, needing to move, or do something, or have an outlet for the place he was stuck at, stuck tense and ready and not going. A stuttering sound of pain fell from his lips as she rippled up against him again and again and again, but it wasn't pain, just needing, needing, needing that wouldn't stop.

Her movements stuttered to a stop as she came again, writhing against him. "Oh," she moaned. "Oh, god. I love you, I love you, I love you. Fuck." Her skin shivered as he slipped down along her hot, wet skin, kissing, tasting, licking, needing. Beyond reason, beyond anything but the fact that he was near, and far, and stuck, stuck, stuck. The twitching, shivering jerks of her second orgasm as it racked her insides along his length finally pushed him over.

For a moment, his breaths seized up in his chest. He leaned back against his hands, shaking, unable to draw air, and the world around them seemed to shimmer and blur and disappear, until all he could see was her, her milky, freckled skin, slick with water, puckered in places from oversaturation, her soft, gray, sparkling eyes. He barked with a half-groan, half-shout as the tension sprang him into blissful release. She clenched around him, her arms sliding under his and wrapping around his back, holding him, supporting him as he fell into hard-earned oblivion. He jerked inside of her, robbed of the ability to stop the flexing of his muscles from the ends of his fingers to the tips of his toes, robbed of the ability to hold himself upright.

"Fuck," he grunted as the spasms subsided, and her grip eased.

She knelt on top of him, panting, and they listened to the pelting thunder of the water, not speaking, just breathing. Steam curled around them, thick in the air from the constant replenishment. He wrapped his arms around her, leaning his forehead down onto her shoulder as he tried to recover anything resembling thought.

"I love you," she murmured into his ear as he rested against her. "I love you so much. Thank you. I missed you. I missed you so much. I needed. I needed you so much. Thank you." Her voice warbled, almost crying, but not. Her body quivered, and he realized that, though she'd meant it when she'd said she hadn't wanted to pressure him, hadn't wanted to force him into something he wasn't ready for, she really had needed this, needed it badly.

"Mmm," he groaned. It was supposed to be an I love you. It was supposed to be a thank you. It was supposed to be a lot of things. But his brain wasn't connecting with his mouth, and he just sat there, spent, utterly spent. A warm, dull hum spread through his body as the remnants of his orgasm settled into every muscle, every pore, every space held between the edges of his skin. He was still inside her, still connected, and he felt complete, sated, perfect.

Exhausted.

But, for once that week, it was an exhausted that he could live with.

He definitely felt okay today.


	48. Chapter 46

**Author's Notes: Thanks for the comments everyone. I'm behind again, and I'm super busy right now, but I will get to your feedback on the previous part as soon as I can. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The little plastic baggie crinkled in her hands as she stepped out of the elevator. She'd been standing, slanted against the corner, gripping the rails, when it'd hit her. There would be no Derek at work to greet her or interrupt her day anymore. No Derek cornering her in an elevator for at least six weeks. And that was… She'd spent the remainder of the ride wondering what exactly that was.

She felt a little throb of elation for him. He was going home, finally going home, and he would be so much happier away from this place. Away from this place that caged his spirits, made him feel less than human. She had a feeling, deep and twisting and scary in her gut, that even if they tried to keep him an extra day or so for further observation, he would leave against medical advice. He hated it there that much.

The afternoon and night before had been difficult. They'd dropped him off codeine. He'd still had a bit of an ache, so they'd replaced it with simple Tylenol. As a result, he'd had absolutely nothing in him to help him sleep, nothing pushing him into a doze against his will, and he'd spent all afternoon the day before alternating between staring at the door, watching bodies pass by, and staring at the window wistfully, where the sun had finally decided to start shining. The last vestiges of a drugged glaze had slipped from his eyes as his blood had burned off the codeine, but in return, she'd watched the sharp, desperate, stir-crazy look of a prisoner replace it. He definitely wanted to go home.

She'd given him his earplugs, but every time she'd woken up during the night, he'd been staring at the ceiling, his fingers worrying at the blankets on his bed as he pondered the complexities of the tiles above him. He'd flinched, despite the earplugs, every time a noise had filtered in from the hallway, almost as if he didn't need to hear it, he just knew the noise was there, just like some sort of medicinal Beethoven, and she'd been torn. Torn because she'd been happy he felt well enough to have such an overriding desire to get out of there, but upset that he'd been so disturbed.

Elation. She definitely felt elation for him. Derek was going home.

At the same time, she felt empty. Because after Sunday passed into memory, she was expected back for her shift on Monday, ready to work, ready to go, ready to cut, ready to be a doctor again instead of just a glorified med student studying for finals. And there would be no Derek snarking at her in the elevator, running into her all the time in the hallways for no apparent reason other than his deviously good planning.

She shook her head.

That was… selfish. It was entirely too selfish, she decided, to be feeling things like that. Derek needed to go home almost as much as he needed to breathe at this point, and it was selfish to miss him. He wasn't even gone yet, and she missed him. How did that even work?

"I finished filling everything out," Ellen said in a deep, earthy voice. Meredith snapped awake from her musing, only to realize that, at some point, Ellen had fallen into step beside her. She wore casual, black knit pants and a blouse, looking sunny and bright to match the morning that had graced them.

Meredith smiled weakly, twisting her fingers around the bundle crunched between her palms. "That's great," she said. "I can't wait to get out of here. Just watching him is making me antsy."

Ellen laughed, and they lapsed into comfortable silence. They walked down the hall of the step-down wing. Derek had never been moved to standard care, probably because of the fever scare on Friday. Equipment and roaming nurses and staff and patients made negotiating the hall a sometimes-difficult experience.

Derek's door was open, and even from the hallway, Dr. Weller's rich baritone oozed through the air, unhindered, strong beneath the constant murmur of hospital like a collection of sticky honey, clinging to everything it touched. Dr. Weller had the perfect voice for doctoring, because, while it said everything was all right, that everything would be fine, it held an underlying, knowledgeable authority to it. Everything wasn't just all right. It was under control. And he knew what he was doing. Some doctors came off as arrogant in that knowledge, but Dr. Weller had never once shown himself to have a speck of ego. It was odd, all things considered, and very atypical of a surgeon.

"Dr. Shepherd," Dr. Weller said, and then his voice dropped lower, into something warmer, kinder, reserved more for a friend than a colleague or a patient as he continued, still in that rich, perfect voice, "Derek. I know you know about homecare following craniotomies. I won't insult you. But I did want to say one thing."

"What?" Derek said. He lay stretched out against the bed, sitting up and on top of the blankets as though he were ready to bolt the moment someone said it was okay to leave, as though the hindrance of blankets would be three seconds too much in his journey to escape. He wore a loose set of gray sweats, cross trainers, and a comfortable old t-shirt that had, at one point, probably been a crisp, electric indigo, but had faded as the dye had been slowly scrubbed out of it. It was a perfect outfit for lounging, but also a perfect outfit for exercise, for jogging, which further emphasized his desire to split.

Dr. Weller sat beside the bed in a chair, scribbling notes over what Meredith presumed was Derek's chart. His white lab coat crinkled at the shoulders, disrupted from its natural flow by the back of the chair. His watch glittered as he wrote, the glass shifting with the motions of his wrist and catching the sunlight filtering through the smudged windowpane. It was as if the world outside had realized what a momentous day this was and had gifted them with something other than rain as a going home present. The lazy patter of drizzle against the window was, for once that week, absent.

Dr. Weller and Derek looked up as Meredith and Ellen entered the room, but their conversation didn't falter. Meredith sat down in the chair on her side of the bed and Ellen sank down onto the couch. Derek's eyes crinkled around the edges just a little, and a soft smile of greeting coursed across his face like a wave as he glanced at Meredith, a soft smile that said so many things all at once. Hello. I love you. How are you? I'm going home! I'm happy. The expression disappeared as the crush hit shore, and Dr. Weller spoke. Despite the brevity of the look, Meredith grinned widely at Derek as she placed her small plastic bundle on the stand beside the bed and eased further into her chair.

"As a doctor," Dr. Weller said as he turned back to Derek, "It's very easy to think you know better, and it's very easy to get frustrated. Just take it easy. The next week is still critical. You're purely in the recovery phase right now. I can't stress that enough."

"I know," Derek said, and the last hints of his happy but silent greeting dripped away. Meredith noticed, finally, in the absence of his disarming smile, after the exhilaration over seeing him had passed, just how strained he looked. His gaze wandered to the window, and he sighed. Fleshy bags hugged his eyes, and the careworn lines around his eyes had deepened from something merely sexy to something tired and longing.

"Derek… I'm just not sure you do know. As your doctor in this case, I have to ask," Dr. Weller said. "Do you have someone to stay home with you for the first week or so? Or at least someone immediately available if you need help?"

Derek blinked and turned back to Dr. Weller. He crossed his arms over his chest and shifted slightly. The intravenous line was gone, replaced by a taped up square of gauze. "No…" he said.

Meredith felt the quiver of tension drawing the air between them tightly into its grasp. She sighed. She'd wanted to stay home with him. She'd have given anything to stay home with him, but she'd already used up all her resources. She had no leave banked, no bargaining power left with which to procure leave she didn't have, and Dr. Bailey's kindness only went so far before she'd decide Meredith was too far behind in the program to ever make up the time. Derek had been doing so well the last few days, Meredith had tried not to let it bother her that he'd be staying home alone. She'd tried. And she'd never brought it up with him, because, hello? She'd imagined it would be a major sore spot. Just judging from the way he reacted now, it was a sore spot. He wanted to go home. He wanted it badly. But one of the main reasons for it was to get away from all the people crowding him with assistance and help he didn't want, didn't think he needed.

Her jaw tightened as she watched Dr. Weller's friendly face sink into something far more serious. If he thought Derek wasn't well enough to go home by himself, completely by himself, there was a chance Dr. Weller would increase the length Derek's hospital stay in the interests of Derek's safety, which, really, would not make Derek very happy. At all.

"I can stay with you, sweetheart," Ellen offered. "It's no bother at all. I was planning on staying in Seattle for at least another week anyway, and I imagine Mark would like his spare bedroom back."

"Oh, Ellen," Meredith replied, a stab of relief cutting deep even as she found herself mechanically protesting, "I don't have any beds left. Just the couch in the den, and that's—"

"I don't need a babysitter," Derek said, his tone low and wary.

"It's all right, dear," Ellen said, waving her hand dismissively in Derek's direction. "I'll be perfectly fine on the couch."

"I don't need a babysitter," Derek said again.

Ellen turned to him and sighed, her gaze flicking between him and Meredith and Dr. Weller as if she couldn't decide what to say, couldn't decide what was safe to say, and the pain that racked her expression made Meredith shiver. Ellen didn't want to be the pest that made Derek feel like crap for being sick.

"Derek, you can't drive," Dr. Weller said, saving Ellen from the worry of it. Meredith reached for Derek's hand and stroked his palm as Dr. Weller continued, "What if you need to go somewhere?"

His fingers tightened in Meredith's grasp. "I can call a cab."

"You can't lift anything," Ellen said.

"Shouldn't," he insisted. "Shouldn't lift anything."

"Derek," Ellen said, "I really don't want to upset you, but—"

"I just want to go home," he snapped. "I'll be fine when I get home. I feel fine today. I felt fine yesterday. I just get a little tired when I do too much."

The fact that he didn't turn, didn't wink at Meredith over the sexy, secret meaning of his words brought Meredith pause, helped forge the lump in her throat. She heard the undercurrent in his tone. He could, he could, he could, and now everyone was telling him he couldn't, and that was frustrating to him. Maybe he really did think he'd be fine, that when he got home, things would be fine. Home was supposed to be freedom from this place, and now everyone was insisting he needed someone to take care of him. Meredith bit her lip.

Coward, coward, coward, her mind screamed. This was Derek. Frustratingly stubborn, god-complex-y Derek. Of course he was going to assume he'd be walking on water as soon as he got out of this place, which was the sort of feeling that would only set him up for a drastic, horrible upset when he finally got home and discovered he was still tired, still drained, still not quite right. Why couldn't she bring herself to contribute?

She felt like a maniacal mad scientist with scissors, clutching at some poor, hapless bird. Clip, clip, clip the wings. That was why. She hated the look on his face. The way the water swirled against the surface of his eyes in a sea of denied tears. That was why. He just wanted to go home. They could talk about this later. They could talk about this later when they were away from Seattle Grace, when he'd had some time to freaking unwind and relax a little, after he'd had five minutes to enjoy the fact that he was alone again, relatively speaking, after a week of constant people.

She opened her mouth to steer the conversation away from this place, this place that was making him look so agitated, but the words that followed came from Dr. Weller. Not her. "Can you walk up steps?" Dr. Weller asked.

Derek blinked, flinching as he started to look between everyone in the room as if he couldn't figure out where the next jab was going to come from. "What?"

"Have you tried to walk up any steps yet?" Dr. Weller clarified.

"When the hell would I have walked up steps?" Derek snarled. "Nobody lets me walk anywhere unless I'm on a fucking leash."

"Derek, this is what I meant about getting frustrated, about thinking you know better," Dr. Weller said. "You need to let yourself heal, and you need to acknowledge that you're not healed yet. When you get home, there won't be a call button. There won't be a nursing staff doing things for you anymore. What they do is easy to overlook, but it's a huge part of why you're feeling like you could be fine, now. Most people, when they go home, are surprised by how much worse things seem all of the sudden. I'm sure you've gotten plenty of calls from concerned patients wondering what went wrong."

"I just want to go home," Derek said. His eyes reddened as he blinked, blinked, blinked. "I'll be fine when I get home. I just need home. Please. Please, tell me I can go home." His skin started to shiver and redden with embarrassment, and Meredith felt like crap for not jumping in earlier. Utter crap. She knew the look on his face. He was begging. He was begging, and he hated it, but he was so upset he couldn't stop himself.

"Nobody's saying you can't go home, Derek," Meredith said, trying to reassure him. Dr. Weller stared at her for a moment, his expression curious, and she knew. She knew Dr. Weller actually was considering recommending Derek stay for a few more days if he decided he didn't want Ellen around.

Meredith sighed softly. Coward, a small voice said. Coward, coward, coward. Nothing was being voiced that she didn't agree with at least on some level. And even if he didn't want to hear it, he should. He wasn't freaking Superman. He'd just had brain surgery. The next week was still a critical week. He didn't even have his stitches out yet. She hadn't pressed the issue of him being by himself, but now everyone was pressing it. Everyone. And if Ellen was available to stay with him and offering…

She took a breath, shivering with a sob she refused herself. She took the scissors and began to clip, feeling horrid for doing it, but… But…

"Derek, it's easy for you to assume you'll be fine," Meredith whispered softly. "It is. I know you, and I know you'll be perfectly okay ninety-nine percent of the time, but you'll be all alone, and that one percent terrifies me. What if you fall? You could have a seizure, Derek, and no one would be home to help you."

Meredith tried to ignore the sting behind her eyes as tears gathered. Derek wasn't taking this well. He drew his hand away, his jaw set in a firm line. For a brief, nasty moment, she wished she'd let Ellen and Dr. Weller take the brunt of this, but it was a valid point. Derek would be home alone, and, though he was much, much better, he was still not well.

"Derek, please," Meredith said. "You could have a seizure."

"Stop it," Derek said. "Stop."

"I'm sorry," Ellen said. "I'll… I'll stay at Mark's."

"You don't have to do that, Ellen," Meredith replied, sighing. "You can stay with us."

"I don't want to impose…"

Derek sighed. "It's fine."

Ellen sniffled. "Derek, sweetheart…"

"Jesus Christ," Derek snapped. "First you want to babysit me, and now you don't. Make up your goddamned mind."

"Derek Shepherd, you will not speak to me that way!" Ellen roared.

Silence sliced the room apart shard by shard by shard, until the air between them was a broken collection of puzzle pieces that didn't connect anymore. Everyone hovered in his or her own discordant world. Red, angry defiance gripped Derek in a vice of frustration. Meredith shivered with weepy uncertainty that threatened to melt into anger. Anger at herself for letting this devolve to the point of breaking. Ellen appeared to be juggling an apology with the firm resoluteness that an apology wasn't needed. Dr. Weller remained impassive, only the ticking skin around his eyes revealing that he was as affected by this exchange as they were. Meredith saw it then, in his gaze. Dr. Weller considered Derek a friend. He didn't want to do this anymore than they did.

Meredith swallowed, staring at the floor, watching Derek shiver with upset, looking almost like he wanted to bolt for the door at this point regardless of what they said. She'd mother-henned. She'd done the mother hen thing. She'd freaking mother-henned. What the hell. She'd promised herself she wouldn't do that. She knew that even if Derek couldn't when he thought he could, he was one of those people who had to come to terms with it on his own, not because someone had told him he couldn't. She looked up, intent on muttering a litany of self-deprecating words of apology, but, surprisingly, Derek beat her to the conversational starting line.

A sigh shuddered through Derek's frame. "I'm sorry," he said as he visibly worked his body through the paces of calming down and the redness leaked away from his skin, replaced by a healthy peach. "This place… I need to get out of here. I didn't mean to yell, Mom."

Another cleansing sigh tore through his frame, and then he turned to Meredith. The sharp, clear blue of his stare peeled away her self-flagellation, and without any words, he said everything that needed to be said. I know you're scared. I'm sorry. It's all right.

Meredith stood up from the chair and eased onto the bed beside him, feeling the need to be closer like a siren call amongst a ship of sea-weary men. She needed him. And she hated fighting with him. He wrapped his arms around her shivery frame, his warmth seeped into her, and everything inside except her heart fell into stillness. She sighed, breathing in the musky scent of him, pushing her nose into the crook of his neck and taking comfort in the rough forest of stubble that'd broken the surface of his skin. His palm followed the curve of her spine, and he whispered something at her, not really a word, but it didn't matter, because it made things perfect and okay anyway.

"Sorry," she muttered, her voice strained and hoarse with tears she hadn't shed.

"It's okay," he said. And it was. "I know," he said. And he did. He looked up and smiled brightly. Though the expression didn't quite tear away the clawing desperation on his face, it did a great deal to make him seem more at peace with things. "It'll be nice to visit with Mom when I'm not stuck in a bed all the time," he said as he forced confidence back into his posture, his tone, everything. Meredith could see the determination coiling behind his expressive gaze. He wouldn't be stuck in bed. He wouldn't. He would be fine.

Meredith ran a hand down the length of his arm, sighing as she melted against his solid frame.

"All right, well, I'll leave you all to deliberate on the specifics," Dr. Weller said, slapping his hands on his knees as he stood. "I'm sorry I sowed some harsh feelings. Abasi will be in shortly to escort you to the door. You'll need to sign some forms at the admitting desk."

"Already done," Ellen said. "I have all the homecare pamphlets and everything."

"Wonderful," Dr. Weller said. He stopped in the doorframe. "I'll see you in two days to take out those sutures, Derek."

"I can walk to the car," Derek said.

"Sorry," Dr. Weller said, a helpless look crossing over his features as he shrugged. "You know policy."

Derek sighed, but if the words upset him, he didn't let on, which made Meredith smile, despite the fact that she wanted to take whatever binder the drafts of hospital policy were written in and light fire to it. This place had laid him bare, but he was building himself back up again, slowly but surely building. His body was healing. His state-of-mind had lagged a little, but it was healing, too. Slowly.

"Hey, Mike…" Derek called after the departing surgeon.

"Yeah?" Dr. Weller said, turning around with a curious expression. His fingers clasped around Derek's chart, whitening his knuckles even further. He brought his free hand back into his hair, ruffling it in a Derek-like, I'm-upset-and-I'm-thinking gesture, but he didn't look upset. Just wondering. Meredith didn't think she'd ever heard Derek call Dr. Weller by his first name before, though Dr. Weller had been calling Derek by his on and off for a while.

"When I get back," Derek said, flashing a wide grin, "I owe you a drink. A very large drink."

"Derek…" Dr. Weller said. He sighed, and a stiff sort of tension that had held his posture straight and rod-like leaked away. He slumped against the doorframe and smiled. "When you get back, I'll happily take you up on that."

Derek chuckled. "Glad you didn't kill me?"

"Immensely," Dr. Weller said. "Talk about working under pressure."

"Thanks, Mike," Derek said, his tone dipping into soft sincerity.

"Anytime," Dr. Weller said. "Though, you know, preferably not." He grinned, and then he was gone.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Ellen said. "I promise not to bother you. I wish…"

"I didn't mean to snap," Derek said. "I didn't. I was… I think I'll be grateful for the company." He turned a pointed gaze toward Meredith. "I'm used to having company lately," he said before another wide smile creased his features.

"I know," Ellen said. "I'll leave you two alone for a bit. Give me a call when the nurse comes. I'll bring the car around, all right? If we time it right, you won't have to wait outside, and we'll be home before you know it." His mother smiled brightly.

"Thanks, Mom."

"Of course, Der. I love you."

"Love you, too, Mom."

Ellen gathered up her red-striped tote bag and purse and left the room. Meredith rested against his chest, clutching a small tent of his shirt in her fingers, and sighed at the scent of him, the scent that was Derek. Just Derek. He ran his hand through her hair, and it was as if the conversation about the seizures, about him needing someone to stay with him, had evaporated into nothing. It'd happened. It had. But it wasn't overriding, wasn't something he felt was crippling him anymore. He was all right. He'd just had a momentary lapse of… something.

"You too, huh," she said, unable to stop wistfulness from edging her tone into breathlessness. She grinned. "I was kind of wondering what I'd do without you interrupting all my elevator rides."

"Really?" he said, laughing. "I was having early onset lavender-lust."

"Lavender-lust. Is that a technical term?" she said.

"Oh, yes," he replied. "I have a thing for lavender."

"Really?"

"Mmm," he said as though he were sampling a taste of the world's finest Godiva. He leaned into her, until his lips were millimeters from her ear. He breathed, and then he whispered, "It's very intense."

"I thought that was ferries," she said, shivering as the rumble of his words slipped down her spine and tingled lower, starting a throb of desire. She bit her lip, willing it to go away. They'd be home. They'd be home in just a little while. She could wait. She could freaking wait.

"I'm an intense person," he said. He pulled her against him and sighed. "I'm sorry," he added. "I know… Seizures. I know they scare you. I didn't mean to scare you, Meredith. I really didn't. I get… stuck. Stuck sometimes. In my own head."

"I know," she whispered. "They don't scare you?"

"Seizures?" he said. "They do."

"But?"

He didn't answer her. Instead he kissed her cheek and held her close. He didn't need to answer her. His embrace spoke enough to paint a picture worth a million words or more, and silence stole the moments away into its comforting keeping. He absently rubbed her arm with his hand. She watched him as he peered out the window, staring at the cerulean sky with a sort of longing, and she hoped the nurse would come soon with the wheelchair.

"I forgot," she said as she pulled away. A spike of longing twanged down her spine like she was a plucked string of a violin. She grabbed the plastic bag from the table and handed it to him, resettling quickly against him with a sigh. "This is… This is for you. It's not a scrub cap or anything, but I saw it in the gift shop while I was stretching my legs, and I thought you'd… I thought…"

She closed her eyes when the words wouldn't come anymore, and a shiver of embarrassment coursed through her. What if he… This was a gift that he could easily take the wrong way. And it was the first gift she'd ever given him. It wasn't romantic or meaningful like the scrub cap he'd bought her. It was practical. For him. Because the hair thing really bothered him, even though he took care not to say much about it. It really bothered him, and if she could fix it…

The bag crinkled. She watched his deft, surgeon's hands as they searched the contents within. He pulled the bundle out, flicking the sticker tag with his fingers as he assessed the gift. It was a thin, cream-colored knit skullcap. The hospital had them in the gift shop for people undergoing chemotherapy primarily, but it also served in instances like this. It looked like the hats Alex liked to wear, close to the head, minimally intrusive, subtle.

"Thank you," he said. He yanked at the tag, which came away from the cap without much effort, and he slipped it over his head, hiding the stitches, the scar, and his pale skin away from view.

"It's okay?" she said. "I didn't want... I mean, I'm sorry if…"

"Thank you, Mere," he said, cutting her off with a gorgeous smile. The cap's light color made him seem less tired, though the smile did more to that end. He straightened a little, and the overall effect was striking, even if it was small.

"Sure," she said.

He ran his fingers over the edges, smoothing the cap against his scalp. "Well, I imagine it's not The Hair, but…"

She grinned. "Very sexy," she assured him. "Very hip or something. We should get you some bling."

He blinked. "Some bling."

"Totally," she said, nodding. "You need some bling."

"I'm a thirty-nine-year-old, brain-damaged neurosurgeon. Not Eminem."

She laughed. "Definitely not Eminem."

"Definitely not," he replied with a smirk. "I'm happy, I have no rhythm, and I have no bling. Three strikes against any hopes of me being a rapper."

She snorted, trying to contain the gurgle of laughter that threatened to erupt as she pictured him trying to do anything remotely coordinated like move to The Real Slim Shady, or some equally offensive song. Under normal circumstances, he was graceful, lithe, and athletic. His thin but muscled frame was perfect for outdoorsy things like hiking and camping, perfect for the exertion of wild sex or jogging. But music had a way of stripping the grace from the most graceful of souls, and aside from sexy slow-dancing, she couldn't picture him as anything but an awkwardly flailing pile of limbs no matter what the music, no matter what the dance, whether it was hip-hop, the flamenco, or just the kind of writhing you did at a club, where you let the beat decide the motions for you. Derek was an arrogant individual. He flaunted it if there was even a chance he had it. If he didn't dance in public, there was most likely a very good reason. A very good, beatless, flailing, hilarious reason. Instead of ribbing him, though, she latched onto the first thing he'd said and sighed as the mirth she'd found in the thoughts of him dancing settled into a hum of relaxed happiness. She kissed him softly on the lips. "You're happy," she purred.

"When I look at you?" he said. He caught her gaze with his unblinking, twinkling eyes. "Very."

"Cheesy."

He winked. "You love me for it."

"I do. I really, really do."

"I love you, too," he said as she settled back against him.

She rubbed his arms, wishing she could just get them both out of there, away from everything. "Just a little longer, Derek. Abasi will be here any minute, I'm sure."

He sighed against her, but it was an unhurried, relaxed gesture more than a perturbed one. His grip tightened around her. "I'm okay. Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," she said.

"Good."

One moment, they rested in silence, the next, commotion tore down everything they'd built. She felt Derek tense underneath her, and his relaxed, what comes will come Zen attitude bled back into anxious wanting. Wanting to get away from all the interruptions.

"Hey, Shepherd," Dr. Burke said as he burst into the room, "Do you—"

"Would you stop with the bachelor party plans?" Cristina snarled as she entered the room just behind him, interrupting Dr. Burke's question. Her scrubs were rumpled and slept in, and her hair was clipped back in a loose, mangy ponytail that had seen better days. She looked like she'd seen about five minutes of an on-call room in the past thirty-six hours, and tiredness rolled from her frame, but the exhaustion seemed almost like a fuel that kept her words from halting, a little like tequila in the hands of Meredith.

The two of them came to a stop just inside the door, crossed their arms, and glared at each other.

"Cristina…" Dr. Burke said, his tone low, patronizing, and woeful.

"I told you," Cristina said. "We're not getting married unless we do it at City Hall like I said I wanted." She gestured toward the bed, giving the first indication that she realized the room they'd wandered into was otherwise occupied. "Just him and Meredith. No one else. That means no Moms, flower girls, white dresses, or priests. I'm not doing it."

"Why are you being so difficult?" Dr. Burke said.

"Hey, Cristina," Meredith offered to the tension in the air, but the words fell apart like confetti and disappeared into the conversational pause like they hadn't been uttered at all.

"Difficult?" Cristina demanded. She turned briefly to Meredith. "Hi," she added gruffly, confirming that Meredith had, in fact, spoken, before turning back to Dr. Burke. Meredith sank back against Derek, trying to catch up with the whirlwind of fighting that had entered the room. "Difficult?" Cristina continued. "Difficult is you screwing around with my professional life to get me to do what you want in our personal life. I don't appreciate being bullied or punished whenever I don't fit your mold. You, Preston Burke, are difficult."

Dr. Burke sighed again. His gaze drifted momentarily to Derek's bed, considering. He turned back to Cristina and stiffened. "Cristina…" he said.

"No. No, we're having this fight here. If we don't have it now, we're not having it at all. I'm done. And it's not like she's not going to hear about it later."

"I'm feeling rather overlooked," Derek commented, a smirk pasted on his face, though in the corners of his eyes, Meredith found clipped annoyance. Go away. Go away and leave me alone, for once. He'd had major disturbances in his room practically every day. Mark. Addison. Ellen. He didn't need more, particularly if they weren't even about him.

Cristina shrugged. "I was assuming the grapevine effect."

"Cristina…" said Dr. Burke, which only incensed her further.

"Stop Cristinaing me!" Cristina snapped.

"Maybe you two need to chat in an on-call room, or something," Meredith suggested quietly, her mind racing. She'd wanted Cristina to stand up for herself. She'd wanted Cristina to be sure she was getting some of what she wanted out of the deal, instead of letting Dr. Burke push, push, push her for things she didn't want. But she hadn't expected… Well, she hadn't expected them to be fighting in Derek's room, of all places.

For a moment, Dr. Burke stood still. The skin around his eyes ticked. His crossed arms tightened against his chest, and then he launched forward, spitting like an enraged lion or something. He gripped Cristina's arms and shook her. "I have to push you!" he exclaimed.

"Excuse me?" Cristina said.

"Every step we've ever taken, I've had to push you," he said. He started to pace. "You're always happy later, but getting you there? It's impossible. You don't listen when I speak to you reasonably. What else am I supposed to do?"

"But I want to get married!" Cristina said.

Dr. Burke drew back. "You do…" he said, his arrested, quiet tone betraying just how flummoxed he was to his audience, though his face remained calm and collected. He was Preston Burke, and there was no fighting there.

"Yes! I told you I did. I just don't want some frilly, girly affair. We'll get enough of that when Meredith finally goes through with it."

"Thanks, Cristina…" Meredith snapped.

Cristina rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't look at me like that," she said. "You want the white dress and the doves and all that crap. I know you under that Ellis-poisoned exterior."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting white dresses and doves," Derek said.

Everyone turned to him, considering.

"Not for me, damn it," he added, his face reddening. "There's definitely something wrong with that."

Meredith swallowed, unprepared for the overwhelming turn of focus in the room from Dr. Burke and Cristina to her and Derek. "You want me in a white dress?" she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper as she wiped her face and stared at him.

She hadn't really thought about it. What she'd want. What kind of wedding. She wasn't even sure whether he was Catholic or Protestant or what. She was pretty sure he was some flavor of Christian. Well, he probably wasn't Catholic. What with the divorce. But he celebrated Christmas, which, unless he was just one of those people who liked Christmas trees and Santa Claus and mistletoe for the hell of it without thinking about the underlying reason for the holiday, she could rule out pretty much everything without a bible containing the New Testament. Then again, he'd also never struck her as very spiritual, either. He loved the outdoors, but she'd always perceived that as more of an appreciation for the peace being close to nature brought him, not for any connection it might have offered him to whatever was out there that was bigger. It was one of those things they just hadn't gotten around to talking about. It'd never been…

Well, it hadn't been very important. Not to her. Not when she was such a faith-challenged mess. She wasn't even sure what **she** was. She hadn't been to church since… Never. Ellis hadn't been a religious woman, and Sundays were a valuable day for work.

"Meredith, I want what you want," he said softly, breaking her from her spiral of thoughts. "If it's legal, I really don't care."

"But you like the idea of a white dress."

"Meredith…"

"Shut up and stop deferring for once," she snapped. "If what I wanted wasn't a factor, you'd want to do the white wedding thing, wouldn't you?"

She tried to picture herself walking down an aisle in a huge, airy church, a train of frilly, lacey white flowing after her. Bells would be ringing, and there'd be hundreds of people there, mostly because of Derek and his family. She didn't have a big family. Four interns, and a budding relationship with a fake-mom. She shuddered. She wasn't a frilly, lacey, white dress person, was she? That was a fairytale.

"Well, I…" Derek stammered, but she saw in his eyes what his tongue wouldn't straighten out to say. Yes. Yes, he did. He wanted that.

Sometimes, fairytales were nice, a small, breathy whisper flitted through her head. She changed her focus, instead thinking of Derek standing up front in a tuxedo, smiling at her as she walked up to him and they gave each other the rest of their lives. He would wear a rose pinned on his pocket. She didn't know why. It just seemed appropriate. And when he would smile and take her hand, the world would fall away, the church would fall away, everything would fall away, and the only thing she would care about would be the timbre of his breaths beside her, the soft, winding way he would recite his wedding vows, as though each word alone were an act of love. His vows would probably make her melt. He was a cheesy romantic. He'd do the cheesy, romantic vows thing. What would she write?

She didn't know. She couldn't even explain her favorite color without a paragraph of babble. Explaining whatever this was that she had with Derek? It seemed sort of like trying to cram the Iliad into a haiku.

"You're both really disgusting, I hope you know," Cristina said. "You're going home in like two minutes. The sex can wait."

Derek blinked first. Meredith swallowed and tore her gaze away. Had she really been staring that deeply? She… Heat flushed her cheeks and swept away as she recovered. Derek squeezed her shoulder. We'll talk later, his gesture seemed to say. She nodded against him and sighed.

They would definitely need to talk later about this. Her brief flirtation with May and his mother's gazebo was nowhere near the end. A pit of realization widened beneath her, and she clutched at Derek, trying to stay afloat in the sudden, drenching enormity of it. Definitely nowhere near the end. They had a lot of planning. A ton. A whole. Freaking. Ton.

"You actually want to get married?" Dr. Burke prodded, but his voice was like an echo against the roar. Meredith blinked.

"You okay?" Derek whispered.

"Yes!" Cristina said. "And if you'd get your arrogant head out of your ass long enough to listen to what I've been saying, you'd know that."

"Well, if you'd stop trying to punish me all the time for loving you, I'd stop pushing you!" Dr. Burke said.

"Yeah," Meredith replied, low and throaty against his skin as she leaned to kiss his jaw line. "Just had a whoa moment… Thing. Whoa. Good whoa, though. Totally good."

Derek nodded, and hugged her tighter.

"Fine!" Cristina said.

"Fine!" Dr. Burke said.

Dr. Burke and Cristina would have been almost nose-to-nose, were it not for the height difference. As it were, Cristina stood, glaring, inches from Dr. Burke's chest, looking up to him, but not seeming at all like she was looking up. She glared, glared, glared him down, and he wilted into a slouch.

"And I want it in September," she said.

He bristled again. "What? Why?"

"Why?" Cristina said. "Because all the kiddies are back in their state-run prisons where they belong and surgeries will be at an all-time low? Or, maybe, because I don't want to get married the day after my test! That was the worst date choice ever." She let loose a breath that puffed the stray pieces of her hair away from her forehead, and her whole body seemed to deflate. She looked at the floor, shuffling her feet in an uncharacteristic, unconfident gesture. "And I like September," she added in a lower, softer voice. Her eyes watered, and she looked up at him. Her lower lip started to tremble.

"Well, okay then," Dr. Burke said.

"Yeah," replied Cristina. She blinked, and the water in her eyes spilled over.

"September," Dr. Burke said. He stepped into her embrace and pulled her close.

"Yeah," Cristina whispered.

They shared a long, deep, understanding look. Cristina peered back over her shoulder, her eyes snapping wide with a sort of, "Holy hell, what did I just do?" bit of freak out, but then it slipped away. She wiped her face, sniffling.

"Rain check on that bachelor party," Dr. Burke said, not taking his eyes from Cristina.

"Okay," Derek replied.

And then Cristina and Dr. Burke left. They stepped out of the room. Burke's fingers sought Cristina's loosely, though he didn't drag her, and they disappeared from sight in the direction of… Well, there were on-call rooms. His office. Maybe they were going to chat a little more reasonably. It didn't matter. Meredith blinked as the air around her and Derek seemed to empty. Dr. Burke had sort of an imposing presence, and when he left, it was like replacing a fire with a void. She clutched at Derek's shirt, relishing the comfort of having him close. What she felt for Derek she likened to fire, but Derek himself? Her rock.

"That was…" Derek began in the silence that followed.

Meredith inhaled. "Whoa."

"Yeah," Derek said. "I guess I don't have to worry about how I'm going to do that, then."

"Do what?"

"Make it through a bachelor party where I wouldn't even be allowed to drink anything alcoholic because of all the stuff I'm on, and then somehow stand through a wedding ceremony and reception," he said, a wry, bitter smile tearing across his features. He raised his hands to his head in a jerky motion, like he wanted to claw his fingers through hair he didn't have. His fingertips slipped against the cap, and he yanked his hands away. A subtle shiver ran through him from his shoulders to his feet, and he sighed, clutching at her.

"Are you okay, Derek?" she said, worried that the yelling had gotten him more riled than she'd realized. She frowned, realizing she'd sort of put him on the spot with the wedding dress questions, forced his involvement.

He swallowed thickly, leaning back against the pillow. "I'm fine," he said.

"Okay," she whispered, not entirely convinced as he resumed staring at the window.

"I want to go home," he said.

She frowned. "I know. Maybe I should go get--"

"No," he said. He sighed softly. His eyelids drooped shut for a long, suffering, tired moment before he opened them again, too wide, like he was forcing his eyelids apart.

She stood, slipping out of his arms with woeful regret at ceasing contact, but a fresh determination. "Come on," she said. "We'll walk. Your mother signed everything. Everyone here took a freaking Hippocratic oath. What are they going to do to us if we walk?"

He laughed softly and pushed himself into a full sitting position. His muscles shook a little, but he seemed game enough to try. "All right."

A knock at their door brought their gazes up. "Hello, Dr. Shepherd," said Abasi. He sniffed, his beak-nose crinkling. He looked tired, like he needed sleep almost as much as Derek seemed to need it. "Ready to go?" he asked as he moved into the room with the wheelchair they'd been waiting for.

Derek slid off the bed, his movements slower than they should have been, but confident. "Finally," he said, the relief sluicing from his tone, an audible exclamation point to the way his shoulders slumped. It was as though his skeleton had crumpled before her eyes. He lumbered over to the chair and sank down into it, not even protesting this last indignity. He stared at the door, blinking long and slow. "Get me out of here," he said.

A large form filled the doorway, and Chief Webber stepped in. "Oh, I'm glad I caught you," he said. "I'd like a word with you before you go."

Derek slumped. Meredith gritted her teeth. Couldn't they just. Freaking. Leave?

Abasi backed Derek further into the room, closer to the bed, to make way for the Chief. Abasi cleared his throat.

"I'll take him down, Abasi," Meredith assured him. "Thank you."

"All right, Dr. Grey," Abasi said. "Be well, Dr. Shepherd." He left.

Chief Webber cleared his throat. Derek crossed his arms and stared at him. "Well?" Derek said, shifting in his chair as though, while it hadn't bothered him before, it bothered him immensely at that moment.

Chief Webber glanced at her before focusing on Derek.

"Should I leave?" Meredith asked, glancing between them. "Is this a boss thing or something? I can leave. I can… yeah. I can leave."

"No," Derek said. "If this is something you can't hear, we're not staying. I'm on sick leave, Chief. With all due respect, I just want to go home." The quiet desperation in his tone tore Meredith's heart to shreds. She sank down onto the couch, clutching her arms around her chest.

Chief Webber sighed, his gaze darting between them. He seemed… dejected, somehow, when he looked at her, as though he thought he'd failed at something. Failed deeply, but she couldn't bring herself to harbor any sympathy. The Chief sat down in one of the spare chairs, bringing himself eyelevel with Derek, who visibly relaxed as the differential between their heights slipped into nothing.

"Derek," Chief Webber said, "I'd like you to act as interim Chief of Surgery when you get back."

Derek blinked. "What? You want me… What?"

Meredith's breath caught. What? What now? She bit her lip, trying not to intrude into a conversation that, while she was in the room, she obviously wasn't party to. She watched as stunned disbelief shifted into rigid tension that held Derek in an awful, unmoving vice.

"You won't be cleared for surgery for at least another month, possibly as many as four, after you get back," Chief Webber said.

Derek's jaw clenched, and the skin of his temples shifted as he ground his teeth. "I know."

"I'm tired, Derek," Chief Webber said with a sigh. "I'm tired, and I need to retire. The board expects to be deliberating on a suitable replacement for me for another three or four months yet."

"But…"

"You were the only one being seriously considered, Derek. When you withdrew, it set everything back to square one. The Board of Directors has decided to send feelers outside for some fresh blood, but that will take some time."

"But…" Derek said, his tone dripping away into something lost. His hands clenched around the wheelchair arms. "But you said…"

Chief Webber gave Derek a wry smile. "Derek, I was trying to spook you out of it," he said. "I won't lie. I'm thrilled you decided to take a second look at your career goals and your life. Congratulations on your engagement, by the way. You have… I'm glad you have what you have. But I wouldn't have carried my concerns about your personal life to the board. You're the only surgeon who applied for the job with the drive, sincerity, and lack of professional blunders to hold up the text on your résumé."

Meredith blinked, trying to resist the urge to leap up from the chair and hit something. She'd wondered. She'd always wondered how the others had even been considered competition for Derek. Addison was involved in a multi-million dollar medical malpractice lawsuit that was currently ongoing. Burke had lied about his tremors, endangering countless lives in the process. And Mark… As a teacher, Mark rarely excelled beyond forcing his interns to get his dry-cleaning and mocha lattes. He was an awesome plastic surgeon, and he was wonderful at superficial conversation, the buttering-up phase, but he had no follow-through with anything meaningful.

She'd wondered how those three could have been serious competition for Derek, who hadn't yet been sued for malpractice, or been involved with any sort of hospital scandal other than her, really. She'd assumed, with a little sliver of guilt, that Derek's relationship with her, his subordinate at work, had been enough to sully his chances, even before the Chief had outright spoken of it. Because she simply hadn't been able to think of anything else. Sure, he'd had a mess of a personal life, but it had been just that. A personal life.

A whirl of gut-deep dread tore through her when she realized just how much the Chief had twisted things up, spun things to make them seem like they were going in a different direction than the tide seemed to indicate. Derek had been convinced. Convinced in a depressed, resigned, desolate way. He'd been sure, when he'd chosen Meredith, that he'd been making a choice. He'd been sure. And he'd been utterly messed up inside as a result.

But then the dread leaked away, and confusion churned in its place. If the Chief hadn't lied, would Derek have ever discovered what he wanted? Would Derek have entertained the idea of not being Chief long enough to realize that not being Chief was the pallet where his new dreams slept?

She wrung her hands together, watching Derek's expression shift like sunlight refracting through water.

"But…" Derek said, struggling for words. "Why?"

"I could have handled it better," the Chief admitted.

"You fucking well could have," Derek snapped. He slammed his hands down against the armrests of the wheelchair and forced himself to stand. He started to pace. His eyes reddened, and Meredith sat there, helpless as she watched him come to the same conclusions she had.

"I'm sorry, Derek," the Chief said. He watched Derek pace, his eyes tracing the movements like a zebra watching a lion pacing at the edge of the herd. Derek started with graceful, purposeful movements that spoke with smooth, definitive surety about the amount of recovery Derek had already endured, but while they began as graceful, they slowed to stuttering as the strain wore down on Derek's already frazzled nerves, and anger wasn't enough to fuel him any longer.

Derek paused. He tore his hands back against his head, only to accidentally rip the cap away. He looked like he wanted to hit something as he re-placed it on his scalp. He settled on staring at his hands as he flexed his fingers, almost as though he were preparing himself for a particularly difficult surgery, examining the functionality of each knuckle and sinew and joint, fingertip to forearm. His expression shifted into something ghost-like and removed, like he'd lost focus, no longer cared about his arms or the room at all, and was lost somewhere only he could see. Meredith bit her lip.

"Now, you want me to take a job I don't even want just so you can retire a few months earlier?" Derek said, his voice churning with incredulous disbelief.

"The administrative side of Chief of Surgery will be more than enough to keep you occupied while you recover," Chief Webber said. "Even without surgeries. You wouldn't have to take a pay-cut for reduced hours as Head of Neurosurgery. I'm trying to help you."

"I don't give a shit about the money, Chief," Derek said. "It was never about the goddamned money."

"Derek…" Chief Webber began.

"Jesus," Derek snarled. "I'm not even gone, and you want to figure out what I'm doing when I get back. I don't know what I want to do when I get back. I don't know what I…" Can do. The words hung unsaid in the air like bad, mis-plinked notes of a piano piece. Vibrating. Harsh. Obvious.

"Would you consider?" Chief Webber asked.

"No. No, I will not consider," Derek said, his voice dropping into something low and dangerous. "I said I didn't want to be Chief of Surgery, and I meant it. I don't want more paperwork. I'll still be able to do consults. And clinic work. I'll have plenty to do. I just won't be able to cut, and no amount of distraction will fix my feelings about that, I assure you. If I have to work part time, I'll work part time. But I don't… I don't want to have this discussion, now. I can't have this discussion, now. I can't. I have to go home. I need to get out of here."

The Chief regarded him for a long moment, and again, Meredith was struck with the feeling that he knew he'd done something terribly wrong, and couldn't figure out where the mistake had been made this time. "Okay, Derek," Chief Webber said as he stood up from his chair. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset!" Derek spat at him.

"Okay," Chief Webber said in a quiet, placating voice. He turned when he reached the door. "If you change your mind, please let me know. I really can't think of anyone better for the job. And I do mean that."

Derek laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "Sure," he said.

She eyed Derek as he continued to pace. Back and forth and back and forth. He kept raising his stare to the door. He shook his head. And then he'd pace some more. Until the breaths rattling in his chest relaxed into something less ferocious. Until his steps wobbled to a stop, and he sat back down in the wheelchair. Not sat, really. Collapsed. He put his head in his hands, sighing deeply. When he looked up, his bloodshot eyes were watery, and he swallowed thickly.

"Derek, are you all right?" Meredith asked.

He blinked, swallowed. His whole body shuddered. "Mom's probably waiting."

"Okay," Meredith said, not willing to press it further. She was glad that they'd already packed his things in the car, glad that they didn't have anything else to keep them there, to delay them any longer. She'd never wanted to get out of a place so badly as she did at that moment. She called his mother on her cell phone to let her know they were finally coming, and then she pushed him out of the room without once looking back.

She pushed Derek at a pace that might have seemed more like a fun sort of racing at any other moment. The silent hum of the elevator, for once, though they were both in it, didn't seem in any way sexy. Just tired. Done. Finished. Derek sat, breathing quietly, not speaking, and she swallowed. He'd been jerked around and lied to so many times in the last year and a half. She knew it bothered him. While the Chief had always been sort of a thorn in her side, always giving unwanted advice and offering fatherly suggestions she didn't need, he'd always seemed sincere. She'd have never thought he would have… Lied. Just flat out lied. Like that.

She was thankful. Thankful for the life the lie had breathed into their struggling relationship, thankful that it had helped Derek come to terms with himself and his dreams. But it could have been done differently. It didn't have to hurt like this. Did it?

Derek stood up from the chair, taking a deep, sharp breath as he walked through the doors of Seattle Grace and out onto the front walk. Endless, cerulean blue hugged them in a dome overhead, interrupted only twice by the wispy remnants of icy stratus clouds. The air was cool and damp, just cool enough for long sleeves to be comfortable, but not cool enough for a jacket to be necessary.

Derek breathed deeply, his nostrils flaring as he veered two steps to the side out of the main pulse of foot traffic, and stood there, breathing. In the crisp, sparkling daylight, Derek's pallor seemed a little unhealthy, but he looked… He looked healthier than he'd been all week. His eyes slipped shut, and he breathed again. The tension drained from his face, and for the first time that day, he didn't look tired, desperate, upset, or sick. Just relaxed, thankful, and a myriad of small, subtle positives in between. His lip curled in a gentle smile, and he turned into her, wrapping his arms around her. A low, rumbling groan curled through his body.

"The light feels good," he said, and underneath it all, she caught his meaning. He hadn't been able to go outside for over a week without wearing sunglasses, and now he stood next to her, eyes closed, not because he needed it to keep away the glare, not because the light pained him, but because it was something he found merely relaxing.

"I'm glad," she said, breathing against the warmth of his shoulder.

He opened his eyes and stared at her. "What car am I looking for?"

"Your Lexus."

"Okay," he said as he shifted his gaze to peer at the front drive, just in time for said Lexus to pull up. For a moment, he stood there staring, his frame racked with small, subtle shivers that belied his sudden, relaxed fortitude.

She clutched her arm around his waist, and they walked to the car. Ellen reached across the parking brake to open the door for him. Derek reached down and curled into the seat, gingerly avoiding the roof of the car as he slipped his head through the frame. He yanked his seatbelt down over his lap and pressed himself against the door, contorting. His fingertips brushed the leather interior just below the window. As Meredith settled into the rear seat, she saw in the side rear-view mirror Derek's blank stare as he watched the world pass by the window.

Ellen drove them home. The trip was long, but quiet. They caught every light, and every time traffic laws brought the car to the halt, Derek would shift in his seat, sigh, and resettle.

When they finally parked in the driveway, Meredith breathed a sigh of relief. Derek launched himself out of the car before Ellen had the engine turned off. He bolted for the front door, but after taking the steps up the walk, he veered and sat heavily onto the swing that her father had fixed just a few short weeks before. She and Ellen halted at the doorway, watching him as he stared blankly out at the yard, the last vestiges of okayness sloughing off him like dead leaves in the fall.

The swing rocked back and forth, but Derek didn't seem to notice that the swing worked. It hadn't the last time he'd sat in it. She could remember him sitting down in it, jokingly asking her if she wanted to neck. He'd shifted, frowned, shifted again, frowned, and she'd finally laughed, telling him the swing had never worked and that there were far more comfortable places to neck, but if he wanted to keep wriggling, by all means, that he should continue.

She stared at the door, wondering what had diverted him, debating whether she was supposed to leave him be or… or what, exactly? A faint whining echoed behind the thick wood of the door, and she had a feeling she knew exactly why he'd decided not to go in. She wrapped her hands around the door and pushed. Unlocked, then. The faint whining sharpened into screaming, shrieking giggles.

The thunder of feet rumbled through the house, and she caught the sight of Annie disappearing around the bend of the living room, only to reappear seconds later in the foyer from the kitchen on the heels of Lindsey as they went round and round and round. They bolted past her through the foyer, giggling, stopping only to say hello before they resumed their merry chase.

"No running!" Stewart belted as he appeared at the top of the stairs, suitcases in both hands. He wore flip-flops, sleek, black warm-ups with white running stripes, and a frayed yellow t-shirt that screamed athlete, and she wondered how she'd never noticed before. Probably the fact that she'd most often seen him hung-over in a ratty old bathrobe, she decided. "Remember what Daddy said about running in houses with breakable things that are most decidedly not ours to break?"

Lindsey and Annie skidded to a halt, looking profoundly guilty.

"Thank you!" Stewart said. His face widened into a grin when he saw her. "Meredith," he said.

"Meredith?" Sarah called. Her face poked into the gap between Stewart's shoulder and the wall. She was too short to look over top him.

"Hey!" Sarah said. "We've packed up everything," she said. She shoved around Stewart's tall frame and thumped down the steps. Stewart grunted, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated see-how-I-let-her-abuse-me expression, but it was jovial, and he grinned anyway despite the violence to his ribcage. "Our flight is in three hours," Sarah continued, "So we have to be pushing off, soon. Where's Derek?" Stewart came up behind her, lining up the suitcases at the foot of the steps.

"Out on the porch," Meredith said. "He took a detour. Honestly, I think he's appreciating the fresh air." She hoped Sarah wouldn't read too far into it. She noticed Ellen hovering close in the space behind her.

"Ah, well, the sheets are fresh," Sarah said. "We just used the ones in the hall closet. I hope that was okay."

"Yeah, that was fine," Meredith said, smiling.

"And I think we picked up everything," Stewart added, "Though, if you find a crayon rolling around here or there, well…"

"Yeah," Sarah added, before switching to mom voice and belting, "Ladies, go to the bathroom now if you need it!"

Neither of them budged. Stewart rolled his eyes. "Bet we have to make a stop."

"Stu, don't encourage them," Sarah hissed.

"Bet you fifty bucks."

"Do you have fifty bucks?"

"I'm not the one who bought out every over-priced gift shop in Seattle," he commented.

Sarah rolled her eyes, brushing a wispy, black bang out of her long lashes. She laughed as Meredith peered at their suitcases. They didn't seem overly stuffed. "I FedEx my extra stuff."

"She's an experienced shopper," Stewart added.

"Right," Meredith said, laughing.

The goodbyes were quick and crushing and cheerful. She hugged Stewart. She hugged Sarah. She hugged Lindsey and Annie. There was a lot of hugging involved, and she felt a little like her innards would get squeezed out through her mouth like the scraps of a toothpaste tube if she got squished against one more body, but it felt nice. The hugging thing. The quick goodbyes that meant they weren't really goodbyes. Just until-next-times.

The crowd of them rumbled out onto the porch. Derek was still on the swing, but he'd leaned over, his eyes were shut, and his frame slouched against the side of the swing as it rocked slowly in the breeze. His eyes shot open, wide and startled as the kids ran over to him and leapt on the swing with him. His fingers reached up against the side of the swing, and he clutched at it like it was the only thing keeping him up as he panted with startled energy.

"Goodbye, Uncle Derek!" they said, and to his credit, he swallowed and managed to regain some semblance of cheer.

"See you later, ladies," he managed to say in a low, pleased tone, a smile curling at his lips, even as he flinched with every bit of noise they made. Sarah and Stewart, thankfully, gave him a little bit more space, and merely waved from the porch and then from their rental van as they slowly pulled out of the space. Ellen disappeared back inside the house as the van disappeared around the corner, leaving Meredith stranded on the porch with an unsettled Derek.

She sat down on the swing next to him, unsure of what to say. He seemed wrong. Off. Unhappy. But she had no idea how to fix it, no idea how to begin to even try.

He stared at the yard, exhaustion pulling at his features. Quiet like a holey, patchwork quilt wrapped around them. Every once in a while, a sound of civilization would trip through one of the gaps. A kid laughing. A bell on a bike. A breeze slipping its fingers through the trees. A bird observing the passing moments. He didn't make mention of the fact that the kids had pulled him out of a solid doze, or the fact that he'd needed to doze at all.

"It was supposed to be better at home," he said. "I was…"

"I know," she whispered. His fingers left the side of the swing, his grip relaxing as he slouched. He sniffled, his face reddened, and he wiped at his eyes. Nothing happened. He just sat there in tense, unhappy limbo.

"I was supposed to feel better," he said, and then he crumbled, a sick, curdled sound falling from his lips as he leaned forward over his knees and clamped his palms against the back of his neck, shielding his ears with his wrists. He hovered there, staring at a small train of ants on the ground.

For a moment, she bit her lip, unsure of what to do. Her first instinct was the mother hen thing. The thing she hated. She wanted to ask if he felt sick, if he needed something. A spike of fear punched through her, and she couldn't help but wonder if they'd brought him home too soon. She splayed her fingers against the small of his back. His muscles shivered at her touch, and he kneaded the base of his neck with his punishing grip.

"Give it a minute to sink in," she insisted. "You had a rough morning. But you're home, Derek. No more nurses or monitors or doctors. Well, except me and Alex and Izzie, but, yeah. At least nobody will be prodding you all the time. You can sleep when you want, walk where and when you want."

He blinked and turned to her, releasing his head from the prison of his hands. "I want to go upstairs," he said, his voice soft and strained with exhaustion. He stood, gingerly committing his body back to the fight against gravity, a fight which he seemed to be in danger of losing. He inhaled sharply and leaned against the railing.

"Okay," she said. She wrapped an arm around his waist. He shivered in a gesture that racked him from fingers to toes, inhaling softly before releasing himself from the railing to move.

He didn't have any trouble walking, didn't have any trouble with the steps at all, which left her puzzled. When they moved into their bedroom, he sighed, soft and shaky. A smile tore at his features, but it wasn't a happy one, or a lusty one, or a sexy one at all. He looked like a man who'd been starved into submission, only to find a final cheap morsel of bread on the floor to give him one last hope in the midst of emotional desolation. Desperation shredded the sparkle in his eyes, turning what should have been diamonds at the sight of home into dull, black carbon.

He tore his eyes from the bed only long enough to walk to the window. He drew the blinds closed with a snap, plunging the room into an autumn-y darkness of brownish blacks and deeper golds, not pitch. The slivers of daylight slipping into the room around the edges of the blinds gave the air a warm, sunbathed quality, the barest hint of long, sheet-like dust motes slicing the room into gradients of dark and darker.

He kicked off his shoes, slipped into bed, and burrowed underneath the covers until he was a blurry lump in the dimness. The comforter rose and fell with the rasping of each breath. Meredith shut the door behind her and stood there, confused, trying to adjust to the dim light. She was just about to ask what was wrong when she heard the first sniffle, and the even rasping became jerky, stuttering.

She kicked off her shoes and slid underneath the comforter with him. She couldn't see him in the dark, but it didn't matter. The air beneath the comforter hummed with his warmth, his scent, painting a vivid picture for her mind's eye. She imagined him lying, curled over on his side, but facing her, blue eyes deep and blank and watering. The blankets quivered overhead. He was quiet about it, his disrupted breathing barely louder than a whisper, but the vague, muffled sounds of weeping tore into her like the shrapnel of a bomb.

She shifted, scooting closer to him, only to squeak in surprise when his arms snaked around her and pulled her tight against his torso like a teddy bear. She rolled with the gentle guidance of his hands, and he spooned her, burying the raspy stubble of his neck and chin in the crook between her ear and shoulder. Cool, slippery moisture seeped onto her skin, spreading as he lingered where her pulse throbbed. He inhaled her like a drug, like the only way to fill the void inside himself was to pull her inside of him. The jerking, quiet gasping stopped, and then he went still and silent as his breathing slowed into a lumbering pace indicative of sleep.

They lay there in the dark, buried under the comforter. Her eyes drifted shut, but she didn't sleep, couldn't sleep. Instead, she listened. She pulled his wrist up against her cheek. His lax fingertips brushed the lobe of her ear. She shifted, bringing his palm down against her, feeling oddly like she was listening for the ocean as the low thunder of rushing blood slipped into the edges of her awareness. She rubbed her fingers against his palm, sliding her skin against the supple bumps and bulges of the bones underneath.

She didn't know what to do for him. He was sick. He was much, much better, but obviously, something inside himself that he wanted to click wasn't clicking. She didn't know if it was pain, or fatigue, or perhaps something deeper, something more complicated that wouldn't be fixed by a simple prescription or a nap.

There'd been times in her life when she hadn't been physically ill in any measurable sense, but she'd realized innately that something wasn't right. Like her feeling the day before the bomb scare. Just an underlying sense of dread, a feeling that she didn't belong in her body. Something in her head had decided to produce too much or too little of the wrong chemical, or something, and she'd been deeply depressed. Brain injuries were scary, particularly because people had the tendency to develop all sorts of neurological problems afterward, long after the physical hints of the wound were gone. Those were the hardest to deal with, because there was no easy fix. No fast fix. Sometimes no fix at all.

She hoped he was just overwhelmed. Too many people. Too much stress. Too many things happening. Too many chemicals in his body that weren't supposed to be there, overwhelming his equilibrium. Just too much.

She lost track of time while she lay there, lost in a labyrinth of thought. It could have been twenty minutes, maybe thirty, maybe longer. He shifted. Not like when he shifted in his sleep, rolling lazily to relieve whatever blood vessels felt crushed. There was a deliberate intelligence to the movement. The hand she held against her face slipped back through her hair, and the strands broke apart into three separate lines of silk. He kissed her neck.

"Hello," he whispered.

"Hey," she said, smiling. "Are you…" Her fingers tightened around his wrists. She cradled her stomach with his embrace, biting her lip. "Derek, what was that? I mean…"

"I don't know," he said. "I feel better, now."

"Sensory overload?" she asked as he stroked her hip, slipping under the waistband of her knit pants, under the lacy strap that connected her panties front to back, skin to skin, touching. The air under the comforter had become stuffy and hot, and she threw the covers back, gasping slightly at the sudden chill.

"It felt like I was a tuning fork, and the world just kept beating me," he said.

"Oh, Derek," she whispered. She tried to roll over to face him, but he clenched his arms around her and held her still.

"I just needed a minute. I'm okay." His stubble scraped against her neck, the softness of his lips stretched. She felt the smile, even if she couldn't see it. He rolled against her like a wave, flexing and releasing all his muscles before resettling.

"You're sure?" she said.

"Yeah," he said. He laughed softly, and it was a relaxed sound that did more to quell her worrying than his assurances. She loved the way he laughed, marooning his serious consideration of the world on an island far from his body and letting the mirth vibrate to his core. When he laughed, his eyes would sparkle, his skin would crinkle where his lower and upper eyelids met, and his posture would relax. He made laughing sexy.

"Brain damage sort of sucks," he said. "But, really, I'm fine, now. Do we have scissors?"

"Um," she said. Scissors? "Somewhere? In the kitchen, maybe. Why?"

"Because I know I'm Derek Shepherd, and I know I'm allergic to sulfa drugs," he said. He flopped his wrist in front of her face, and she realized for the first time that the nametag hadn't been removed.

She slid her palms down the length of his forearm, slipping her fingers underneath the band. "Maybe it rips?" she said. She yanked at it, only to be thwarted by its durability. The plastic warped, and his name stretched to the point that it looked like it should be pronounced Deeeeeeerek, but the wristband wouldn't break.

He laughed, yanking his hand away with a grunt when she pulled one last time. "Hey, that hand's attached, you know," he said. "And they make those tags to withstand crazy people."

She wriggled against him. "Are you implying that I'm crazy?"

"Oh, hey," he said. "It fits over my fist, now." She heard a crinkling shuffle just beyond her ear, followed by a hollow thwack as the bracelet landed on the nightstand beside the bed, inches in front of her nose. The warped, coiling text stared back at her accusingly. You didn't have to strangle me, you know, the long, winding Deeeeeeerek seemed to say, dejected in a pile.

"That was a really crappy subject change, I'll have you know," she said. "I'm totally onto you and your sneaky, distracting ways."

"You like my sneaky, distracting ways," he said.

"Do I?"

He kissed her, worshiping her skin from her earlobe to the tip of her shoulder with slow, delicate attention. His hands slipped under the hem of her shirt and pushed up. In a writhing, wavelike motion, she helped him peel it away from her skin. The chill only hit her for a moment before he cupped her, drawing his thumbs in a circular whirl of friction. Her skin tingled at his touch, and then the feeling sank deep and deeper still.

"Okay, I guess I do," she confirmed, sighing as he kneaded the breath away from her, leaving her gasping, wondering, hoping, burning.

"The sheets don't smell like you yet," he said. His palms slipped over her ribcage, under the waistline of her pants. He clutched at her hips and mashed against her. She felt his arousal through his sweatpants as he ground against her, groin to back in a spoon.

She gasped. "Yeah. Stewart said. Uh. Stewart said he changed them. They're clean."

"We should fix that," he suggested.

"You're…" She sucked in a breath. "You're sure? Derek, you just…"

She flipped over, finally able to recall some sense, and found hooded, deep blue eyes staring at her. He was sure. Hunger gnawed at his expression, hunger and… something else. She sighed, realizing this wasn't just about lovemaking. He took a short breath through flaring nostrils and smiled at her in a lazy, arrogant way that made her heart thump like a jackhammer in her ears, a lazy way that said he knew she was his, that he knew the only effort required would be keeping the fire lit, not starting the embers burning. He leaned in, tore her personal space to shreds in the barest flicker of movement, and kissed her until the room was spinning, and all she could do was gasp.

"Clothes," she managed. "Clothes off."

The rumble of his pleased laugh warmed the space between them as though his body were a hearth. She pulled at his sweatpants, and in a mash of twisting limbs, he shucked them, kicking them down underneath the sheets toward the foot of the bed. His shirt landed on the floor, catching the cap she'd given him with the fingers of its departure, sending it, too, to the floor.

He didn't move much, didn't do anything crazy or thrusty or wild. But it didn't matter, because he managed to flay her mind until she had only desirous ribbons remaining, all with barely more than a touch, a breath, a kiss. His palm followed the curve of her hip like a boat over a gently rolling wave, sliding her pants away and then her panties. It didn't matter at all when he urged her to roll back onto her side, because no sooner had she lain her back against his chest, he slipped his hands around her midsection, over her navel, softly sampling the curls below, and dipped into the vee between her thighs.

She bucked at the sudden, twisting, sharp throb of pleasure. An uncoordinated spasm starting with a gasp, ending in the flick of her toenails, rolled her into a prison of wanting. She fit with him, fit against his body like a lock yielding to his key, and she groaned as he massaged her into nonsensical bliss.

"Oh, Derek," she moaned. "That's…" Good. So freaking good. Her breath fell away from her, leaving the words unspoken. She ground back against him, into his erection. "Please," she managed.

He grunted softly in her ear. "You need me," he said in a low, throaty tone that shivered with desire, reversing the meaning of his words as though they'd bumped up against the cool glass of a mirror. He needed her. He needed her. He needed her.

"Yes," she agreed.

"You want me," he growled. He pushed himself against her, sliding his arousal between her legs, telling her frankly what he could give to her. The mirror reflected his words backward into the rush. He wanted her. He wanted her. He wanted her.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice cracked and hoarse with the constant waves of euphoria chipping away at her mind. She clenched around him with her thighs, slick and moaning.

His breath caught, his motions stilled, and his whole body tensed before he recovered with a deep, rumbling laugh. "Bad girl," he scolded. "You nearly did me in."

"Please," she whined.

"I need to hear it," he said.

"Please, please, please. I need you."

He filled her moments later, when she was already slick and shuddering with the first hints of an orgasm, and slowly began to pump. His ribcage slid against her back, the space between them widening to millimeters only when he exhaled, which laved her upper spine with the caress of his hot breath. His motions were relaxed, minimal, unhurried, dipping only into her shallows, but he touched her from the inside out, and it was enough. He was always enough. Always. Always, always, always, she thought, until the word became a steady pulse behind her eyes, matching with his unerring rhythm.

The darkness lost its sharp quality as she rolled her eyes back into her head and jerked. He stroked her with his fingers, withdrawing only to trail up her abdomen. He made a lazy circle around her navel before something altered in his pace, his palms flattened against her and pushed up as though he were trying to scrabble up a mountain. Devoting surgical scrutiny to the knife edges of her shoulder blades, he kissed her, kissed her, kissed her again.

Everything tensed, leaving her gasping, desperate, needing, and what was left of the room dissolved into the awareness that she was unresolved. She was a painting waiting for the perfect shade of red. She pulled her lips back from her teeth, her eyes squeezed shut as she grabbed at his arms and clawed him with her nails. The chorus of always became something else, something else entirely.

It became please.

"Derek," she hissed. "Oh, Derek. Please."

"Yes," he agreed, the low timbre of his voice stroking her up the spine like velvet. "Say it."

"Derek," she said.

"Again," he commanded.

"Derek," she said. "Please, please, please."

Something slammed into the headboard. His hand. He gripped it, using it to lever himself for a final thrust into her center. She felt him inside, sliding against her inner walls, filling her. Something inside her split into jagged pieces, and the tension became breaking, breaking, breaking.

She released, and the warm aftershocks pealed through her like a chorus of bells. Her legs twitched, but he held her close, each additional thrust driving an extra rumble of sensation through her epicenter. As the waves slowed to a dull lapping at her shore and eased into silence, she sighed.

Derek Shepherd had brought her home, and she lay useless and in his embrace as he finished just after.

"Mmm," he said, purring like a big cat in her ear as the last of himself spilled into her. "I'm home," he said. He slipped out of her and resettled, wrapping his arms low against her waist, hot and breathing, but spent.

"So am I," she replied.

He pulled the covers back over their heads. She sighed as the warmth began to collect against their sweat-shivering skin. She rolled over to peer at him in the darkness and only caught a faint hint of pale skin before he shifted, resting his ear against her chest. She ran her fingers along the line of stitches while he listened to her heartbeat.


	49. Chapter 47

**Author's Notes: Okay. That part where I said I was woefully behind on my feedbacking? Still true. But I appreciate all the kind words, and as you know, I'll get to you individually as soon as I can :) Thank you so much for the continued feedback and support on this story. I've had a lot of trouble lately with motivation, particularly in light of how busy work has been. Comments really, really, really help me keep going. I cannot stress enough how thankful I am to have all you lovely readers out there :)**

* * *

Meredith yawned as she flipped the page in her book, sniffling, trying to keep her eyes from watering over. The text blotted until she could refocus. She wasn't sad. Or crying. She was just tired. And every yawn brought the idea home that maybe she should sleep, reminded her that she'd come home from a thirty-six hour shift and needed to rest, that maybe, just maybe, she should join Derek, who had been comfortably dozing since before she'd gotten home forty-five minutes ago. 

But she couldn't. She'd learned throughout the course of the year that even after a thirty-six hour shift, unless she literally couldn't think, it was better to wait until a normal hour to sleep again, so she wouldn't get tossed off her already precarious sleep schedule. Sadly, normal wasn't 6PM. 6PM was for dinner. And thinking about upcoming sunsets. And, apparently, 6PM was also for watching Derek sleep away their last evening together before she failed dismally and had to repeat her intern year.

She'd been confident before. Confident when she'd come home from her vacation with Derek that everything would be fine. That she wasn't behind. That she would kick ass on this stupid test. Confidence had come easily when there'd still been two weeks to go, she'd been freshly-but-secretly engaged, and Derek had just been head-achey and not imminently on his way to the operating table, possibly just to die with his skull cracked open.

She curled up tighter around her book, resettling in the chair beside the bed as she stared at Derek instead of the words she was supposed to be absorbing. His back was to her, the line of his body forming a tapering wedge that rose to a point at his left shoulder, which peeked out from under the sangria-colored sheets, bare, tempting, lickable. He had his pillow jammed into submission under his cheek in a crumpled pile barely visible in the gap between his right shoulder and his head, and his slow breathing muffled itself into the pillowcase. He slept for an hour or two before lunch. He slept for an hour or two in the late afternoon. And, somehow, he managed to sleep through the night and would only open his eyes enough to mumble a sloppy, smiling, kissy farewell to her in the morning when she left at 5 AM for work. He slept a-freaking-lot.

For a vague, twisting moment, she found herself jealous, only to bite her lip, frown, and force herself to stop. To embrace the sleepy, sluggish glaze of study-itis settling deep into her limbs and muscles and brain. He slept because the brain surgery had robbed him of his energy, and he was still rebuilding it, brick by brick by brick. It was a slow project that would take weeks. Many weeks. Any jealousy over that was sorely misplaced. It wasn't like he wanted to be sleeping all the time. He didn't have much of a choice when his body called it quits.

She stared at her textbook, trying to read the words and failing as a yawn ripped away her focus. Her test. Her test was at 8 AM tomorrow. Fourteen hours away. At least she knew she'd ace the neuro part of the exam. Derek had helped her study for everything from orthopedics to pediatrics to urology, but neuro was the area he could chase into minute specifics, could drill her down into the most obscure questions, and he had. Thoroughly.

She was ready for neuro.

It was the rest… The rest that she was going to fail at. She wondered if Cristina felt the same way about cardio, or if Cristina thought she'd fail at all, at anything.

No.

Cristina Yang was probably lording over her books more out of habit than necessity at this point, because Cristina Yang was a giant. Freaking. Nerd. And Burke would probably be cooking her dinner, most decidedly not helping her on cardiothoracic questions, because Cristina Yang already knew everything there was to know about cardiothoracic stuff.

Probably.

Derek's even breathing shortened. The sheets rustled as he rolled to face her, blearily wiping at his eyes. She highlighted the first word on the page for good measure, not really paying attention to what it was beyond the fact that it had been emboldened.

Study. She had to study. Or at least look like she was studying. Except Derek was waking up, she was home for the first time since before dawn on Wednesday morning, and smiling at her sleepy fiancé seemed much more fun than studying at that moment, particularly when studying seemed so freaking futile in preventing failure. A grin peeled back her lips, even as she embraced the drowning crush of pessimism. You're going to faaaaail, a tiny voice whined in her ear.

"Hey," she said, breathless as she watched Derek's progression from asleep to semi-sentience.

For a moment, he stared at her, blank and dazed, a lazy, pleased smile pulling at his face despite the fact that he had the remnants of dreaming glazed across his eyes, dulling the usual twinkle into something glassy and not quite there. A blink, and the glassiness disappeared. Another blink, and something in his brain connected with his eyes. He stared at her with some amount of purpose. A final blink, and he woke, inhaling deeply, sluggishly, but not looking like he wanted to ease back into slumber, which was excellent, because that meant the tiredness wasn't sticking to his mind like honey when he woke.

A cute, groggy-sounding thing that could have been an ugh, or perhaps just a manly grunt fell from his lips. He wiped his face with his palms and pushed the sheets back, revealing his long, pale, toned torso.

"Hey," he said, the word long and drawn and breathy, reverent, as he leaned over his knees, glancing at his watch. "When did you…"

"A little after five," she answered when his voice trailed away. "I didn't want to wake you up."

Whether or not he approved, he made no comment. She watched the way his muscles flexed as he stretched, pulling himself by force back to wakefulness. He ran his hands against his scalp. A light dusting of fine, soft, ebony-brown hairs had sprouted in the course of the last nine days, giving him about half a centimeter of growth, enough to make his scalp feel like soft velvet when she ran her fingertips against it.

He stood and lumbered into their private bathroom, pushing the door closed behind him. The door caught on a towel and didn't latch, bouncing back a little on its hinges with a moan, giving her just an inch of the line of his boxer-clad body as he bent over the sink and splashed the last bits of slumber away with water from the faucet. He shifted out of view, and she tried desperately to focus back on studying while he relieved himself.

Study. Study. Study. Test in fourteen hours. Test. Had to pass test. Passing test was good. Passing test was vital. Naked Derek would not be on test…

If he was on the test, she wouldn't have to study. She wouldn't have to study, because at that point, she felt like she knew every feature of his body, every line, curve, pucker, and dip. Not that she'd mind studying naked Derek. She wouldn't mind at all. It would be like reading her favorite book all over again, but there would still be the thrill of it, too. She didn't think she'd ever lose the thrill of that sort of repetition. Sort of like skiing when you sucked at it. Every time down the same mountain would still replace your heart with a jackhammer in your chest. Not that she sucked at sex. Just skiing.

She sighed, leaning back against her chair. Naked Derek was definitely study-worthy.

There was a dent on his left hip the size of a pea that she loved to lick and tease and touch. He'd said it was a birthmark, and he always made a soft, hitching gasp when she found it in her roving explorations.

She loved to run her fingertips through the whorl of soft hairs just under his belly button that spilled out of its spiral pattern into a brief, fuzzy line before disappearing into the coarser forest below. Usually, he would groan for that. Low, soft, rumbly.

He had a tuft of hair in the dip between his pectorals that she loved as well, loved to tease and tangle with. She knew the path his Adam's apple followed when he swallowed, straight and rolling toward his chin. She could never get lost along the winding trail of his veins underneath the skin of his wrists, and she knew he had precisely sixteen freckles between his shoulders and his ass, though she didn't ever think she'd tire of searching for a seventeenth. Those places were the territory of sighs.

He had a twisting curl of perhaps ten gray hairs on the left side of his forehead, his left, not hers. The streak of silver sometimes contrasted with his darker mop of curls obviously enough that it seemed like it belonged on a skunk, but sometimes it blended, hiding like a treasure to find when she ran her fingers through his hair. Though, it wasn't a twist of gray, now, just a pale spot amongst the darker velvet on his scalp. He would growl when her fingertips reminded him of it, as if to assure her the gray didn't make him any less virile.

She knew every bump of his spine, the way it ended in a fine point just before his body cleaved apart, the way it dipped at his waist and curled up with the rising triangle of his shoulders. She could follow that, the taper of his hip into his quads, and the precise slope of his trapezius muscles, all from the picture behind her eyelids that brought him to her in the flesh, even when he accompanied her merely in thought. He would purr, then, when she touched those with her palms, touched his spine, his hips, his back, his ass. He would purr like a big cat.

He had soft calluses the size of dimes on the soles of his feet, protecting the skin near his pinky toes from the constant rub and grind of his cross trainers. She had discovered them once when trying to decide if he was ticklish anywhere despite his protestations to the contrary. He was, though he'd let his skin flush deeply red before he'd burst with paroxysms of soft, feathery laughter.

She knew his features, from the superficial, public bits any observer could figure out, to the deeply private, like the clean, Ivory taste of his skin, sometimes slightly salted with sweat, like the way his erection had a subtle upward curve, only becoming evident as the last of his foreskin peeled back, like the way his pupils dilated and blush crept like a weed down his skin whenever she kept him in a prison of uncompleted lust, stroking him along his perineum. She knew the sounds he would make when she framed those features, public and private, in moments of sexual artistry, and by the end, he would always be hoarse, a deep, needing, throaty timbre turning his rich, soft voice into something base, something to remind her they were connected on the most desperate, primal level.

The silence between the end and the next beginning was always her favorite part, when they lay together sweaty and spent, and she could run her fingers absently along his many perfect imperfections, listening to the blood rush in her ears, underneath his skin, the dull, remaining vibrations of pleasure and relaxation telling her she'd done her job as a composer.

Her anatomy book shifted in her lap, forgotten, and with it, all remnants of exhaustion. Her left hand had slipped underneath the waistband of her sweatpants, absently trying to cultivate the low, throbbing pressure developing in her groin, and her highlighter dangled loosely in the fingertips of her right hand.

"You're studying too much," Derek said, his voice breaking like thunder into the soft drizzle of her musing. Her highlighter pen slammed into the spine of her book as she dropped it in surprise, and the hot feeling of blush sprawled across her skin.

He stood in front of her, only his black-silk boxers between her and another study-session on his anatomy. Something landed on the floor beside the chair with a hollow, crinkling thud, but she couldn't tear her eyes away as he settled onto the floor by her feet and stared at her with sparkling, scolding blue eyes. Dim, late afternoon sunlight streamed through the side window, dusting half of him with golden hues.

"Derek, my test is in fourteen hours," she replied, struggling to speak with coherent selection of syllables. Had he caught her staring into space? Thinking about… God. He probably had. He put his palms against her knees, leaning forward. She pulled her hand out of her pants, hoping the book covered her escape from his notice.

"You're still studying too much," he said, smiling. Or smirking. Definitely smirking. She narrowed an eye at him, shifting in her chair, uncomfortably aware of how close he was, close and breathing and hot.

Study, a small voice said. You have to study. Not have sex.

"It's impossible to study too much," she said.

"It's possible," Derek replied. "The information will start to leak." He raised an eyebrow on the word leak, his eyes sparkling with mischief before he settled into a slightly more humble, reassuring gaze. "You're going to do fine, Meredith. Seriously. It's not as bad as you're thinking."

"Really?" she said as her heart slowed, losing track of the lust that'd built it up to thumping. "Because I'm thinking it'll be catastrophically bad. I don't want to repeat my intern year. Minus bombs, drownings, appendicitis, my mother dying, you going back to Addison, brain surgery, and amnesia, the year still pretty much sucked. I can't do it again, Derek. I barely made it through this time."

He blinked, pulling back. He settled Indian-style on the floor, his knees bumping up against the edge of the chair. The skin around his eyes crinkled, and she could tell she'd wounded him. He licked his lips, taking a deep, soft breath before replying, "You won't repeat your intern year, Meredith. I promise."

"I might."

"Mere, you're brilliant," he said. "You're one of the best interns SGH has. And I'm not saying that because I love you. I'm saying that because I'm Head of Neurosurgery, and it's part of my job to know which interns are in imminent danger of failing."

"Which interns are going to fail?" she demanded.

"Not you," he said.

"Which interns are going to fail, Derek?"

"None of your friends, Mere."

She sighed, deflating at his serious look. "I'm sorry," she said. "That's a boss thing, right? I'm not supposed to pry about that crap."

He shrugged, staring at her helplessly. "Sorry."

"It's okay," she said. "There's stuff. There's boss stuff. That you know. That I'm not supposed to know, because you're a boss, and I'm… Not. Not a boss. And it has nothing to do with our personal life, and it's not like you're keeping secrets or anything. Not relationship secrets, anyway."

"I'm not," he said.

"Not what?"

"Keeping secrets that would have any impact on you and me."

"I know."

"Even if it was part of my job as Head of Neurosurgery, if I thought it might mean something for you and me, I'd tell you, Mere," he said. "I'd tell you anything. I swear."

She stared at him, wondering if he realized the position the gap between his job and hers put them in. He would be the one to make the decisions on what mattered and what didn't. And she wouldn't be in a position to censor him at all. He'd hold all the cards. He'd hold… everything.

_That's it. That's all you've earned for now._

He'd looked her straight in the eye, smiled, said that, and had kept Addison firmly tucked away in his brain somewhere for a later day, perhaps never. He'd said he had been going to tell her the night Addison had showed up. She believed him. She did. But…

She swallowed, reaching forward over her book. He looked down curiously as she placed her sparkling ring finger in plain view. Something in her mind snapped, some last remnant of doubt. Derek Shepherd was a stupid idiot a lot of the time. But he was her stupid idiot, and he at least showed a very good propensity for learning from his sometimes heartbreaking mistakes. And, through no fault of his own, there would be some things he couldn't tell her, at least in the foreseeable future. Professionally, they were separated. She was Hawaii to his lower forty-eight. It was something she'd always accepted, though not necessarily thought about.

"I trust you, Derek," she whispered.

He leaned forward, pulling her left foot into his lap. "Put the book down, then," he commanded as he started to scrape his thumb and index finger along the sides of her Achilles tendon as though he were trying to separate it from her ankle.

She sighed, trying to ignore how pleasant his ministrations felt. "You really think I'll do okay?"

"I know you'll ace it," he replied without hesitation. "And I've barely seen you since Monday, Mere."

"I was here on Tuesday and Wednesday!"

"Tuesday meaning after 5 PM, and Wednesday meaning only until 5 AM," he said. "Which, compared to every hour of every day?" He shifted his grip and began to stroke her skin along the bone lines of her toes. He stopped, looking up for a moment. Sunlight glanced off his irises. His eyelids dipped as he appraised her. His lips curled in a vague smile, his grip tightening around her foot.

"Okay, point," she said. "Derek, are you…"

"Much better, Mere. I just…"

"You seem better," she said, smiling down at him as he devoted attention to each and every toe. "More lively."

He frowned with concentration, and she couldn't help but linger her gaze on the way his fingers dexterously plowed away the tension. He ran his thumb along the inner arch of her foot, the line of his nail leaving a crease of skin that sent a shiver of pleasure coursing up her spine. A low, tense throb down below told her even if she thought studying was logically the better idea, her body was all for the sex thing. The sex thing was goooood. And, despite her protestations, her desire for the sex thing wasn't going away. Because Derek was touching her. And he was almost naked. And it'd been four days since they'd had any sort of sex, which, frankly, was three-and-a-half days too long to go without having sex with him.

"I still get really tired," he explained, but she was beyond caring as she leaned back in the chair, and he continued to tease and untwist every tendon and muscle and sinew below her knees. "But I'm fine after a nap." He stopped and looked up at her. "It makes me feel old that I can't make it more than about five hours without snoozing."

"Good," she muttered helplessly, staring at him through hooded eyes as she tried to resist the urge to reach down with her hand and start stroking herself. Everything began to blur, and she sighed, only to stiffen when she realized what she'd said. Her eyes snapped open, and she sputtered as he stared at her, a bemused expression on his face. "I mean… I didn't mean good. It's not good that you feel old. You shouldn't feel old. Derek, you're supposed to be tired. The first two weeks are purely—" She sucked in a breath when his warm palms left her skin bereft of his touch.

"Recovery. I know," he said, expression slathered with amusement and something deeper, something slightly more desperate, as he moved to her other foot and began again, sliding his grip along her Achilles tendon. He quirked a beautiful grin at her. "Better than studying?" he inquired.

"Oh," she said, moaning. "That feels good, Derek."

He laughed. "Of course it does."

She twisted, sending the forgotten book across her lap tumbling to the side between her hip and the arm of the chair. The hard corner stabbed her in the side, and she winced, flinching as it brought enough pain into the haze to make her reconsider.

"Der, I really…" she managed, pulling her foot away. "I shouldn't… I need to study."

"You don't need to study."

"I do. I really, really do. It's… I'm only good on neuro," she babbled at the same time the back of her mind was screaming. Why, why, why are you trying to make him stop? He's practically naked, he wants you, and I'm haaaaaaaappy. "And… Fourteen hours, Derek. Can't… I… You… Huh?"

"Fine," he said. For a painful moment, he stilled, his expression melting into something serious. His thighs flexed as his weight shifted, his body tensed, and then he lunged, grunting as he pushed her back against the chair and stretched her from waist to fingertips, sliding his palms in an upward, slanting trail that took her shirt with it and left her half-naked in the chair. "I'll help you study," he said as he caught the garment on its downward tumble to the floor and tossed it aside, far away from reach.

"This isn't studying," she said, breathless as the chill air struck her bare skin. She hadn't bothered to put a bra on when she'd changed out of her work clothes, opting for studying in comfort over studying in style.

Touching. He was touching her. He was touching her skin. She leaned back as his palms swept past her nipples, lower, and lower still, to the waistline of her sweatpants, toying with the fabric over the elastic as his body slipped back down against the floor.

He smirked. "It will be after I get set up," he assured her.

"Set up?" she said, breathless. "What?"

"Alex, have you seen my purse?" Izzie yelled as she thundered past the door, her footfalls loud and thumping on the area carpet. Her query seemed to echo off the walls, vibrating, horridly close, considering the position she and Derek were in.

"Sofa downstairs," called Alex from a distant place.

Meredith shot her gaze to the door, confirming it was closed. Had she locked it? She didn't know if she'd locked it. She racked her brain, trying to think of the moment her fingers had clutched the doorknob and twisted…

"You'll just have to be quiet," Derek said. The soft strains of his laughter made her frown. How could he always be so blasé about who caught them?

"Derek, what about your moth—"

He leaned forward and kissed her lips, ripping her question away from her as he plunged deep, sampling the taste of her like a fine pinot noir, rolling his tongue against her. A moan slithered from her throat, but the twist of their movements muffled it until it dissipated on the coattails of their heavy breathing.

"I said you'll just have to be quiet," he murmured, nip, nip, nipping to accent his syllables before diving back in. His kisses felt so good, she didn't have the presence of mind to protest. Me? I'll have to be quiet? What about you, Mr. Loud and Grunty?

She slipped her tongue along the ridges at the roof of her mouth, mingled it with his sliding exploration, gasping at the taste of him, slick and yielding to her guidance. When he pulled out and roamed down the side of her neck, nibbling at the pulse of her jugular, sucking, sliding along her clavicle and onto her shoulder, she felt a senseless sort of loss and leaned forward, moaning for another taste. He pushed her arm back behind the chair, sampling slowly with his lips and teeth and tongue down to her elbow before coming to a stop. She was mindless, breathless, impassioned, and when he encircled her wrist with a tie and looped it closed, she didn't think about the implications until she tried to touch him and couldn't.

"What?" she gasped, twisting to see behind the chair what he'd done. Her lower back and neck whined in complaint as she struggled to see exactly what obstruction held her hand at bay. He'd looped one end of one of his ties around the rear leg of the chair, the other around her wrist. It was a loose knot, comfortable, but no matter how she twisted her fingers, she couldn't quite seem to grasp the edge of the tangle to set herself free. "What is… Derek, what?"

"I'm sharing," he said. "Better late than never."

He pushed her against the back of the chair, rolling over her like a wave until the back of her neck cut against the high ridge of the chair. He devastated her with another kiss, squeezing her jaw between his index finger and thumb in a gesture that explained to her that, while he might be easily tired, he was not weak, not weak at all. The full weight of him settled against her, pinning her back against the chair as he kissed her, kissed her, kissed her again, leaving her with only the option to be crushed and swept away by the bliss of it.

Dryly thrusting against her, he pushed her free left arm backward, down toward the floor like he had with her right arm, but she didn't try to stop him, didn't do anything but let him take her away with another devastating kiss, pained not by the knowledge that she was apparently receiving Derek's payback for their Algonquin adventure, but by the fact that now she couldn't touch the soft carpet of hair on his scalp that hovered so close in the storm, begging to be caressed. She felt the knot slide into place, and she sat there dumbfounded and dazed and wanting as he pulled back, heaving breath after panting breath.

He stared at her, a wanton, desirous darkness overriding his normal, loving gaze as he evaluated his handiwork. Her breasts were on display for him, perky, beckoning, and she was unable to do much more than let him look, wishing he would touch her, or do something other than just watch.

He smirked as his breathing slowed into something permitting speech. "You said I get to tie you up," he said.

"Now?" she squeaked as the weight of the situation sank into her awareness. She remembered what shape he'd been in when she'd finished with him, barely able to move. It sent a throb of lust through her lower body, and she swallowed. "Now, you want to tie me up?" she said, even as something screamed, yes, yes, yes, let him! "When my test is in fourteen hours?"

He nodded. "I'm feeling much better. And I did want to share."

"Share."

"Yes. Share," he said as his expression devolved into a base smirk that stripped off the rest of her clothes with a blink. He started pulling at her pants to bring his daydream to fruition. She put her feet down and shifted her weight, letting him slide the waist under her butt and off without thinking much about it until they puddled at her ankles. He smiled as he tossed them away. "I told you I'd do this when we got home."

"Derek, are you sure?" she said. Yes. Yes, let him, damn it. Let him do it. It feels good. Just… But… "I mean. You're… You're sure? You're absolutely sure?" As wonderful as all of this felt, she had no desire to be stuck tied to a chair naked with only his mother, Izzie, or Alex to intervene if he… If something happened.

"I'm sure," he confirmed. "So, unless you have a strong moral or mood-based objection to me doing this, be quiet."

"But I…"

He flashed an evil grin at her as he slipped his fingers underneath the front piece of her panties. She moaned, kicking slightly with her feet in a spasm of pleasure. "Stop. Talking," he growled, but the command wasn't necessary.

He put light pressure down with his thumb, and she bucked, trying to slide into it in a vain effort to fill the void between her legs. She wanted him. She wanted him now. She wanted him right now. Inside. A gasp tore from her lips as he nudged her panties down and tossed them away. He leaned forward and grabbed the book stuck against her side. It landed with a thunk on the thin carpet, forgotten and unimportant in the whirl.

He resettled on the floor, his body hitching as though it were a difficult task to keep himself away, a task which he failed when he slanted toward her, cupping her breasts, winding a hot, warm trail down her sides, to the dip of her waist and the swell of her hips. He hooked his hands under her knees and pulled her forward, inch by inch. It wasn't uncomfortable. The pillow slid down with her, and the chair back kept her head forward, looking. Looking at him and nowhere else. Not that anything in the room mattered beyond the barest detail. Nothing mattered except him and all the features she'd endlessly catalogued.

She pulled at the ties, wishing she could lean forward and participate, but they went taut as he inched her closer, and her whole torso sloped away from him like a waiting canvas. Waiting to be touched. Waiting to be loved and desired. He was so close, so close and hot and strong, and she was at his mercy. She breathed, short, tight, clipped, as he nudged her in the small of her knees until the only comfortable way for her to sit was to hook her legs over his shoulders, offering him her most private gift.

He wrapped his arms over her legs, splayed his warm palms against her inner thighs, and spread her wide before his eyes. His fingers ran along her skin, stroking the lines of her femoral arteries, and then he blew softly on the cleft between. She tilted her head back, moaning as he stripped her of her senses.

"You're so beautiful," he said, his tone low and shivery as he rested his cheek on the inner bend of her thigh and inhaled the scent of her. "You're beautiful, Mere," he said, the barest whisper of vibration. He stared up at her along the line of her belly, nose resting a bare inch from the nest of curls below her navel. He stroked an index finger against the side of her leg, and she couldn't help but twitch. A dark lust hooded his eyes with the movement.

"Derek," she moaned.

He blinked, long and slow, his eyes torn with a desperation that betrayed the calm, suave, haughty look plastered across his face. Their eyes met for a moment, time seemed to rip to shreds, and she hovered in the silence, breathing, watching his plans unfold one by one across his face. Naughty, mischievous plans. His eyes narrowed, and he gave her a wanting, needing look that peeled away every last inch of her skin as though he were making his own catalogue of her and her flaws for later recall.

This was going to be…

"Time for me to share," he growled.

His fingers sliced into the skin that connected her legs to her torso, and his face disappeared from view. "Crap!" she hissed when she felt his tongue bisect her, only to have her breath fall away as he laved her with slippery, sliding, wandering attention. She jerked, only to still in the vice of his iron grip around her thighs. He groaned as she bent her knees and pulled, helpless to do anything but try to find an outlet, an outlet for the pleasure winding through her lower body. She thrust forward, trying to put pressure where there was only touch, but instead of responding to her desperate pleas, he leaned back and laughed, deep and throaty, as though this were something truly amusing.

He smirked as she stilled against him. "Impatient woman," he growled, lowering to renew his attentions. He kissed her with all the severity of a butterfly, tormenting, teasing, giving her soft hints of his mastery without revealing his full hand. She yanked at the ties, wishing she could tumble onto the bed with him. This was… He was…

"Oh," she moaned as he spun her tension like a spider web. The web sprawled slowly as he moved from strand to strand, extending, rearranging. His fingers flexed against her skin. The tip of his tongue slipped deep into her folds, and she gasped. "Ohhh, please. Please, Derek."

A deep, rumbling sound tore through him. "You're mine," he said.

She squeezed her thighs helplessly as she reached the beginning of a peak. Tension coiled in her gut, and she couldn't help but present herself more eagerly, opening herself, pushing into him until her wrists were aching and her fingers started to tingle with numbness. She was lost to it, lost to everything but the moaning, "Oh please, please, please," that she hoped would bring her to the explosion at the end of it. He licked her until every muscle shivered with it, and she thought she would die if something didn't happen soon. Anything. "Oh, please," she continued, a mantra, unable to stop the tension winding up like a pitcher getting ready to…

He pulled away, grunting softly as he caught his breath.

"No," she whined, jerking helplessly against her bonds. She tightened her legs and tried to drive him back into her, but she had no leverage, and he was prepared for her protests.

He smirked at her, and somewhere in the roar, she heard a plastic crinkle, the same one she'd heard before when he'd first sat down. "So, I found something rather interesting in your sock drawer," he commented, his tone matter-of-fact as he toyed with something below her field of view. She strained, strained against him to see, but it was useless. What did she have in her sock drawer? Socks. Socks and…

"What?" she gasped, trying to focus. Focus on anything except the fact that Derek had left her bereft and unfinished.

He showed her the bag first. A generic, unlabelled plastic bag that he'd found in her sock drawer… Oh, god.

A low hum began to supplement the roar in her ears. She swallowed. Something cotton-candy pink appeared briefly between her legs before he cupped his hands over it, over her, and pressed it against her. Vibrations tore through her, sending her winding toward the top in moments, flailing, clawing.

"Derek!" she hissed, almost pushed over the edge, but then it all stopped when he lifted it millimeters away. She moaned, trying to make sense of what he was doing, and why he was doing it to her. Why couldn't he just let her finish? Why, why, why.

So it's better at the end, a tiny voice of reason snarled through her mind. You did it to him. You did it until he was nonsensical and begging and helpless, and now you're paying for it. You're so, so paying for it. Her eyes watered. She'd really just settle for a bunch of little ones at this point. No need for a big, firework-y finish. Right? God.

"Don't stop," she whined, but her imploring words caressed the air between them far too late to do anything but make him smirk.

An eyebrow quirked in inquiry, he pulled the device away from her. It was shaped sort of like an oblong boomerang, fatter and wider at one end, thinner and more cylindrical at the other. It was perhaps four inches long. His index finger lingered over the circular minus button until the hum faded to silence. He tilted the object in his hand, peering at the screw cap that housed the batteries.

"Fun Factory?" he said, haughty, not-quite-laughter stuttering his tone. "Not that I'm knocking your brand choice. Sex is fun. But pink?"

"My… You found my…" she babbled helplessly. "They were out of black. How did you find…"

He shrugged. "You're the one who wanted me to do laundry while I was healing."

"I'm suddenly finding it very irritating that you remember every little thing I say," she managed, trying to catch up to the whirlwind that tore her thoughts out by the roots before they could sprout. "It's not. It's not fair. Not fair at all. And I… Please. Please, just finish me."

"Most women find the fact that I listen to them rather charming, you know," he said.

He pressed the plus button, and the hum resumed. The little object shimmered slightly with movement in his hands. "Which setting do you like?" he asked, his voice low and deep as he peered down at her groin as though it were a cryptogram to solve. He pressed the vibrator against her skin, cupping her with it, and then he began to draw it in slow, firm circles that had her mewling at the pressure. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't… It was barely…

"Hmm," he purred, his eyes alight with glee. "Too low." The hum rose in pitch, and the feeling of shivering movement sank deep into her core. She groaned, prompting a pleasured, rumbling laugh from him.

"Fuck," she hissed as he grew accustomed to what the vibrator's limitations were, and where she liked him to rub her with it. He drew her back up the mountain, slowly, punishing, torturous, altering the speed and motion and timing so that she had to fight for every step with tooth and claw and a groan, and when she reached the top, she was gasping. She clenched her knees against his shoulders. Sweat trickled down her face and tickled the backs of her thighs. Her toes curled. Her neck ached with the tension of jamming her head back against the pillows.

"Do you use this anymore?" he asked softly as he dropped the speed down a notch, keeping her scrabbling at the pinnacle, but not quite there.

"I told… Told… Told you I don't masturbate. You're good. You're good enough for me on your own," she managed between breathless pants. "Crap. Crap. Crap. Please. Let me finish, Derek. Please, please. Please, I swear. I'll do anything."

"Hmm," he said, his voice deepening with grave consideration. "But I like it when you squirm." He leaned to the left and kissed the inside of her kneecap.

"Please," she begged. "I can't… Please." She was nearing the edge again despite the lower setting, despite his taunting, and she forced her breathing to deepen out and rumble evenly through her frame, forced her twitching movements to still. Maybe she could fake it long enough for her to fini--

He dropped the speed another setting, and she snarled.

"So, tell me," he said, pressing the pink vibrator against her. He leaned into her, forcing her legs further apart, which deepened the sensation into throbbing desperation. He plowed a furrow through the twists of her curls as he massaged her deeper into wishing. Wishing he'd just pull the snap release and let her go. She groaned as the sensation devolved into something almost like pain, except it felt. So. Good. So good that it racked her with shivers that wouldn't stop, and her breaths tightened into a woeful-sounding staccato.

"What are the five W's?" he asked, his voice seeming to waver in and out as she rocked against the vibrator with as much force as she could manage.

"What?" she gasped. Air tore through her lungs, but it didn't seem like it was enough. Everything below was tight and twisting and twining and she wanted it to stop. She wanted it to be done. Except she never wanted it to stop, and she never wanted it to be done. The constant yo-yo of the wanting, hating, wanting, hating mashed her brain into taffy. "Please," she moaned. "Oh, please, please, please."

"The five W's, Meredith," he clarified. "To determine the cause of post-operative fever."

"Don't stop. Please, don't stop. Please, Derek."

He lifted the device away and quirked an eyebrow at her. "The answer?"

"Wind," she said, panting. "Uh. Water. Wind…"

"You said wind already."

"Wind and Walking. Uh. Uh… Wound," she stammered.

He smiled. "And?"

"Wonder drugs."

He pressed her vibrator against her, rubbing the broad end against her clit, once, twice, three times, and then the world around her spilled away. "Good girl," he said, his voice deep and warm and rich, but she barely heard it. The pulses spilled through her like thunderbolts, and her knees twitched against his shoulders in dull spasms she couldn't control. The room seemed to spark, and suddenly she couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't move, she could only feel. She arched forward, yanking her wrists against the ties, screaming at the long-denied completion as it overwhelmed her sense of self, sense of anything. Euphoria drummed against her muscles, and when the world came back to her, she felt Derek's weight against her, felt Derek's palm against her lips, keeping her muffled and silent.

He loosened the ties around her wrists, and she hung limply in the chair. He scooped her up as though she were weightless, carrying her the three steps to the bed before she could even think to protest that he shouldn't be lifting her. He tied her arms behind her back, and he tied her ankles together. Nothing on the headboard to tie her to, she thought dully. She didn't protest. She couldn't. Everything spun around her in a nerveless, silent tumble, and she felt... Great. Buzzing with it.

He pulled her body against his and held her until the sensation of being attached to her body returned. He was hard. Hard, ready, and pressing against the confines of his boxers, against the small of her back, breathing softly against her as though watching her fight her way toward her release was as difficult for him to watch without spearing her as it was for her to endure without being able to paw at him.

He grunted, and it rumbled against her frame. He grunted with every breath until he recovered enough to speak. "I think I like the vibrator," he said, his voice deep and throaty and hoarse with denied lust.

The hum began again. He slipped the little vibrator between her legs, and she moaned, pressing into him. "Oh, Derek," she gasped, preparing herself for another exhausting battle.

"I told you I'd help you study," he said. He ran the fingers of his free hand through her hair, breathing softly against her neck, hot, short, buffeting, but quiet as he rolled the vibrator between her legs, undulating the pressure against her groin like a wave. Slow repetition. He knew how to play her like a violin. Slow, slow, slow.

"Mmm," she purred, useless to do much else.

"How many days post-op apply to wind?" he asked

"One to two," she whispered, barely able to hold onto thought. He shifted behind her, rubbing his groin against her back. He moaned, the dire, serious, desperate tone making her feel like a quicksand that would drown him if she pushed. If she pushed… She pushed against him, pushed until he whined, a sound that seemed more animal than human. He panted, regaining his senses after several false starts, and the world spun as he tossed her flat on the bed, a dangerous, wild grimace flaring across his features.

"Oh, no you don't," he said, his tone deep and wispy despite the heaviness of his playful stare. "You haven't given me the whole answer yet." He leaned down, pressing his weight onto her, but keeping his erection far from her wriggling. "Water?" he prompted.

"Three to five," she said.

"Mmm," he replied. "And walking?"

"Five to six?"

"Wrong," he said.

He pulled his hand away from her legs, and she bucked in his grasp, wishing she could tear at him with her arms, plead, beg, tell him to keep on going, anything. Instead, she panted, trying to find a word. He resettled next to her, close enough to…

She bit her lip and slid her torso back until her fingers brushed the firm, straining lump of silk over his erection. He growled. "Naughty," he said, dragging her into his embrace. "Naughty woman. Do you want me to tie you to the chair again?"

"No," she said.

"Then behave," he said. He leaned against her ear, the soft, prickly stubble swathing his cheeks rasping at her skin. "Walking?" he prodded again.

"Four to six," she managed.

He began to stroke her again with the vibrator, and she moaned. "Very good."

"Wound?"

"Five to seven."

"Yes. Wonder Drugs?"

"After… After a week."

"Very good," he said.

He rolled her back against the pillows. Her arms and fists jutted into her back, propping her torso up at an awkward angle. His full weight came down on her as he straddled her and licked her from belly button to breasts. He kneaded her, suckling, suckling, before moving to kiss her breath away. His tongue spread her lips apart, and she gasped as he ravaged her, rolling into her as though he were desperate for the taste of her.

She inhaled the deep, musky scent of him and gasped as he pulled away, his pupils dilated, his expression somewhat dazed. He wanted her. He wanted to take her. And he wasn't. He wasn't taking her. Each side of his psyche shot arguments across his expression like cannonballs. Desperation. Dominion. Desperation. Dominion. He couldn't decide if he was drowning or sailing.

"You're mine," he said. "You're mine, and you're very smart."

And I want you. I want to have you, his gaze seemed to say. I need to have you.

He ground his boxers against her groin, moaning softly before he pulled away. "Mine," he said again, and again, and again. "Mine." He pushed the vibrator down against the vee between her thighs, panting as he stared, stared, stared, seriously, as though it were his greatest duty in life to make sure she was pleasured before he was.

She finished. It was a quick, sprawling brushfire, beginning with little throbs like the beat of butterfly wings, ending with loud, long pulses that left her sighing and twitching and spent.

He kissed her, running his lips against her soft, freckled skin, pausing to suck and tease and worship every speck of imperfection. He dragged her into him, and the questioning began again, until she couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't focus on anything except the fact that she seemed to be stuck in permanent, unending, discordant pleasure that wouldn't relax into any sort of harmony. Her arousal was like a tide to his satellite. The war between them was a constant rise and ebb. When she was wrong, he stopped and let her withdraw the wet tendrils of her longing back inside, and when she was right, the waves of her twisted forward through the damp sand of the shore, fighting, battling, pushing against the steep resistance. But she would. She would get there. She knew he wouldn't permit her disappointment. He couldn't.

The third time he let her go, the fall seemed endless. She gasped, and he hugged her tightly against his chest as she rode the waves into oblivion, her fingers and limbs and toes nerveless, helpless. Not hers to control anymore. She lay there panting, her eyes glazed over as he stroked her sweat-streaked back with his palms. She shivered, prompting him to lay lengthwise against her, enveloping her with his body heat.

"You'll ace it, Meredith," his low, confident voice rumbled in her ear.

Her lips parted, but she couldn't seem to get her vocal cords to let her speak.

"If you can answer questions during sex, I think you can answer questions in a controlled test environment," he added.

"You turned my test into porn," she moaned.

He quirked an eyebrow, leaning closer, until his nose was millimeters from her own. His soft breaths laved her cheeks. "What's wrong with porn?" he said, an evil smirk overtaking his features. "I like porn. More porn, I say."

"The five W's are just going to be wet, wet, wet, wet, wet, now."

He laughed, wrapping his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head. "I'm not sorry," he said.

"Me either," she said. She lay against the length of him, her face resting against the small of his shoulder. His skin smelled faintly of musky, evaporated sweat, and his chest rose and fell with short, pelting little breaths that told her he was far from relaxed. Far from through. He hadn't finished yet. His boxers tented over his groin. Her wrists ached as she pulled at the tie, wishing she could touch him. She settled for wriggling, hoping to get a rise out of him. For a moment, she wondered if she was having any sort of effect at all.

For a moment.

He took her breath away as he rolled on top of her and kissed her, a sudden savagery to his movements overtaking what had been a calm, rejuvenating repose. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to wait when it comes to you?" he said as he pulled her toward the edge of the bed.

"I'd say it's pretty hard," she replied, gasping, hair flying up into her face. Some of it caught in her mouth, and she breathed, bits of spit tangling with the strands as her feet fell and hit the floor. She put weight onto her ankles, intending to stand to keep him from trying to lift her again, but his body plowed over her, flattening her stomach against the bedspread, and a whoosh of surprised air left her bereft.

"It is," he said, and then he slid into her.

Through the corner of her eye, she saw his boxers slipping down his quads, revealing the crease of his skin where his thigh met his torso. She flexed her fingers and met the shivery, tense plane of his abdomen. She sucked in a breath and moaned as she adjusted to him, and then he pulled away, leaving her gasping, confused, and empty.

"Hold that thought," he said as he pulled his boxers back up.

"Hold that… What? Hold that thought? What?" she hissed, frantic. "I don't have thoughts right now!"

He laughed as he strode over to grab his bathrobe from the door hook in the bathroom. She squirmed, only managing to collapse to her knees on the floor. He returned as he tied his terrycloth robe around his waist, and he gripped her under the arms to help her back to the bed. She lay curled on her side against the bedspread, panting at the feeling of his hands sliding against her skin.

"Derek, what?" she asked, helpless, but all she got for her trouble was the appearance of a third tie. He wrapped it around her head, and fuzzy darkness devoured what was left of her sight.

"Turnabout's fair play, I'd say," he said.

She heard the door open and close, leaving her in silence, sprawled naked and trussed on the bed. "Derek?" she said. He didn't answer. She squirmed, trying to work the ties that held her wrists behind her loose. If she could get her hands free… "Very funny, Derek," she grumbled. "I know you didn't go out into the house when Izzie and Alex and your mother are all around. Your anatomy is competing for a position as a flagpole or something." Silence. "You wouldn't walk around like that. Not with your mother here. Not even you." She shifted on the bed. The bedspread rumpled. He was probably there, watching her, laughing silently. "You seriously wouldn't. Would you?" She sighed, inching her way toward the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the passing of the moments. Her digital alarm clock had a soft, dull hum to it, sort of like the way fluorescent bulbs tended to buzz, only quieter. She stilled, focusing on it, and then letting her senses drift.

The house seemed quiet for a moment before the sounds of people intervened. Izzie was chatting on the phone in her room. The soft strains of guitar and drums wandered through the hall. Music from… From Alex's room? Maybe. She tried to listen for Derek or his mother. Tried. But she couldn't hear past the throb of bass and the tinny vocals, which, while she hadn't heard it when Derek had been tormenting her with her own freaking vibrator, the music sure seemed freaking loud now that it was the only thing to occupy her.

The door opened and shut.

"I really hope you're Derek," Meredith said.

His soft chuckle reassured her. "Yes, Meredith."

"I can't believe you left me here!" she said. "I'm… naked. And stuck! And you. You're…" Aroused. "You've got…" An erection. "And your mother is…" Somewhere. The words didn't quite make it out of her mouth in one piece. She floundered against the ties as he laughed again.

A soft thud tapped the floor to her right. His side of the bed dipped, and he crawled next to her. He'd taken off his bathrobe and his boxers again. The wafting heat that spread from his skin was enough to tell her that.

He kissed her. "It was only three minutes." He kissed her again. "You're very naked." Again. "I'm definitely hard." Again. "And my mother isn't home, Meredith."

"What? Since when?"

"Since I told her that I wanted some privacy tonight. She said she'd leave as soon as you got home."

"You… You planned this," she said.

"Oh, yes," he replied. "Definitely. Though, I wish I'd had a chance to get rid of Izzie and Alex."

"Derek…"

He caught her lips and plunged. "Shhh," he said, pulling away as her body melted into relaxation. He sucked the fight out of every last piece of her muscles, and she was comfortable, and warm, and safe, and blind. She moaned, trying not to let herself drift into the hum of after sex. Three orgasms was a lot, and they'd soaked her through to the bone with a pleased, sated, tired feeling.

"I brought you something," he said. Something cold touched her chest. Cold and hard. It rolled down her skin, and she gasped, flinching away, rolling onto her back, leaving her hands stuck underneath her, her lower body jutting uncomfortably. The peace she'd felt fleeted in the assault of harsher, sharper sensation, but he caught her with a warm palm against her breast, soft, soothing, and the chill lost its bite. She sighed as he lifted the cold thing away. "Open your mouth," he whispered.

"What are you—" He cut her off, shoving a spoon in her mouth. The utensil clicked against her teeth, jarring her, but as her lips closed around the curved, cold metal, she sighed. "Mmm," she purred, and she forgot that she was uncomfortable. The ice cream dissolved on her tongue, leaving bits of strawberry and seeds and crumbly pieces she couldn't identify behind as he pulled the spoon away. She swallowed.

"Strawberry," she said.

"Strawberry cheesecake," he corrected, kissing a trail down her throat, her chest. Something cold enveloped her left nipple, and she hissed as the chill spread against her skin, cold and liquid and moving. Drips meandered into her cleavage, slipping down to her stomach and low, low, lower still. His palms gripped her waist, and he licked her, navel to nipple with reverent, winding attention until every nerve ending hummed. She arched against him, moaning softly as he cleaned the ice cream away.

"This isn't healthy," she whispered against his lips as he nipped her.

He chuckled. "Sex burns calories. It cancels."

"Please, Derek," she said, straining to see in the darkness, though she knew it was useless. "Please, I want you. I want you, now." It didn't matter. Even without her sight, she knew him. She knew he was there, lying against her body, stroking her, petting her, staring at her as though she were the only object in the universe that mattered.

Meredith.

He revolved around her in that moment, worshipped her, until no part of her body was left untouched. The heat of him soaked her through, only to crackle and hiss with the change when her right nipple plunged into the sticky chill. He sucked it away, laving her with his tongue, kissing, caressing. A soft, tight gasp slipped from her lips, and she jerked at the zing of sensation that forked through her like bits of lightning.

"Derek," she said.

"Mmm," he replied.

Meredith.

"I can see why you like strawberry," he murmured.

"Please," she said. "Please, take me. I need it."

"You need it?"

"I need you."

"I know," he whispered.

There was a dull thud against her nightstand, presumably the abandoned ice cream container. His palms slipped against her hips, and he pulled her gently toward the edge of the bed. She groaned, frustrated by the tie around her ankles. She wanted to open for him, wanted to have him, wanted to give to him everything that she was, and she wanted to watch him while he took her, while he claimed her, while he finally let himself loose.

He pulled her over the side of the bed on her stomach, angling her with his hands on her hips, and then he entered her like she was his temple, leaning forward against her as though he were prostrating himself in prayer. Meredith, Meredith, Meredith. His deep, satisfied grunt accented the stop in his forward thrust, and he hovered inside her for a moment, hot breaths pelting the back of her neck. He kissed her in the dip between her shoulder blades, chasing it with another kiss and another, down her spine as though he were confirming the line of her vertebrae to its completion. He stopped midway and flattened out against her.

She squeezed around him, sighing at the feel of him sheathed deep within her core. She wanted him. She wanted him to move, but at the same time, she never wanted him to move again. A hitching sigh fell from her mouth, and she was convinced, were she not already blind, she would have lost her sight in the intoxication of the feeling, the sensation, the knowledge that she was his as much as he was hers.

"You're so wet, Mere," he groaned, pushing millimeters further, jamming his feet against the floor for leverage.

"Please," she said. "I want to touch you."

"This is about you," he said, leaning close to her ear, his words a soft rumble against her skin. "You're mine tonight," he added as he started to pump. "You're mine, and I'm going to show you what that means."

She moaned as he slid in and out of her from tip to hilt in slow, driving motions that belied his earlier look of frantic abandon. It was as though resisting her was what had driven him to frenzy, and now… Now that he'd let himself take pleasure while he pleasured her, he was determined to draw it out until every motion, every movement, and every breath meant something epic about the connection between them. She squeezed around him, gritting her teeth as the blissful tension started to build again. She felt raw with it, raw and loved and decimated all at once in the steady, pulsing crush of his desire.

He put his hands under her hips and pulled her into him. The flat plane of her abdomen and her breasts shifted against the bedspread with his pounding, the force of him enough to move her, but the friction only added a soft burn underneath, unnoticed, but warming, arousing. The mattress moaned every time he reminded her. His. His. His. Every time his torso came home and jammed against her. His soft, rumbling grunts mingled with her sighs and moans.

"What do you need?" he asked.

"Help," she groaned. A soft sob fell from her lips as he reached underneath her. His fingers felt slippery and hard and different, but she didn't realize why until the steady pulses began to shatter her mind. Where had he… When?

"Oh, god," she moaned as he rubbed her with the vibrator. He cupped her with it as he continued, relentless in his pursuit of her satisfaction. "Oh, Derek, Derek, that's…"

"Good?" he said.

"Fucking… Fuck. Crap," she hissed, twisting against his hands.

He touched her. He touched her as though she were the last thing in life that could give him any feeling. His length was a perfect fit for her, his girth enough to make her reel every time he speared her. They fit. He missed no part of her in the onslaught, and she fell into the pounding, throbbing waves of bliss, wishing it would never ever stop. He did her slow, stroking her from the inside out, slow, deliberate, fierce. The vibrator rumbled against her skin, leaving nothing free from attention. Her legs shivered and gave way, plunging her full weight onto the mattress, trapping his hands, trapping the toy, and it was…

Ecstasy.

She panted as something inside of her tightened. The bedspread welled up like a bubble from the force of her inhalations. She flexed her fingers, finding sweat-slicked, hot skin as he met her again.

"Tell me you're mine," he said.

"Always," she replied. "Always, I'm yours."

And then he stopped, hovering inside her, shivering with movement he barely seemed to be able to contain. He groaned, his whole body shuddered, but he held still. She gasped. "Don't stop, Derek. Please, please, don't stop," she said, managing to interject something into the din of explosions behind her eyes. Why did he… Why, why, why.

"What part of the brain controls sexual arousal?" he asked, panting. His question ended in a growl. He shifted inside her. His fingers flexed against her. He wanted to go. He wanted to go, and he wasn't going. She wanted him to go, and he wasn't. Freaking. Going.

She blinked, shivering as she took in lungfuls of air. Panic. If she got it wrong, would he stop? God, she didn't want him to stop, didn't want him to ever, ever stop. "Hypothalamus," she said.

He resumed before she'd wound her way through the second syllable. "Yes," he said, thrusting. "Yes, yes, yes." The words carried with them volume, certainty, triumph, and in the crush of his vocal cords, they lost their meaning, their direction, their purpose. Derek the civilized surgeon disappeared behind the man who tensed against her body, shivering with need and frenzy. He wound his fingers in a coil around the vibrator and drove the setting up two notches, sparking her back to life and then pushing her past it as though his ministrations were a speeding truck.

Yes. Yes. YES. She jammed her torso onto his hands, gasping, crying as he finally brought her. "Yes, Derek," she hissed as her body unwound into euphoria and left her floating.

His whole body shuddered, he came to a stop again, and she felt him jerk inside her. A long, hissing moan fell from his lips, his weight bore down on her. He lay against her unsupported for a long, long while, breathing in the scent of her, his nose buried in her sweaty, tangled hair. She stroked his abdomen with her fingers, what little she could move them, relishing the hot feel of him, alive, and hers, and sated. He felt heavy and boneless, but she wouldn't have moved him no matter what the prize for doing so. Because he was Derek, and he was hers, and she was his, and everything was just…

Perfect.

The vibrator hummed, crushed underneath her, underneath him, no longer an extension of his fingers, but she was finished, done, complete, and it did nothing for her but add the realization that she was definitely still alive. He grunted. His hands shifted underneath her torso, and he flicked the switch as he snuffled at her neck like he was fighting against a slumber deep enough for fairytales.

He took the blindfold off and untied her after several minutes of limp, nerveless resting, and they both crawled back onto the bed, curling up together under the bedspread. She burrowed into the crook of his arm, breathing the warm, sweat-slick scent of him as she rubbed her fingers over his skin, touching, touching everywhere to replace all the burning moments of wanting that had jammed inside her skull and sparkled like a firecracker when she'd been denied. He felt so smooth and hard and hers. She ran her fingers through the velvet dusting of hair on his head.

"Mmm," he said as she slipped her nails across his scalp. "I've missed that."

She laughed. "Does it feel different?"

"Yes, but still good."

"Good," she said, sighing. "I think this is the kinkiest cram session I've ever had."

He peered at her through the slitted eyelids. "You think?" he said indignantly. "What the hell did you do in college?"

"No comment," she said. "As in utterly not commenting."

"Secrets are bad, Mere."

"Secrets about wives in closets are bad. Secrets about drunken orgies on the night before finals are called tact. Kind of like the Vegas thing."

She watched him as he processed that, could almost see him getting ready to ask her when they could go to Vegas so she could spill all. Subject change. Stage left. Stage right. Center stage. What to… Her eyes landed on the vibrator, which lay forgotten by their feet, contrasting and ugly, pink like a bright wad of bubble gum against the sangria sheets and the navy comforter. "So, you like Derek two?" she asked, trying to distract him.

"Derek two?"

"Yeah. You know. Desperate times."

He gripped her tightly. "My counterpart is a pink vibrator from Fun Factory?"

"That thing has a nine hour battery life," she deadpanned. "You should be seriously flattered, I think."

"Hmmm," he said. "No. No, I'm still focused on the pink. Did you really have to get pink?"

"They were out of black!" she hissed.

"You may have mentioned that," Derek said.

"I did," she replied. "I thought you listened to everything I say."

"Oh, I do," he said. "But pink?"

"No black in stock, Derek. I wanted black."

"I thought you were done with dark and twisty."

"I am," she said. "You own a black Lexus. You're not dark and twisty."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're comparing my Lexus to your vibrator?"

"It vibrates. You pant for it. Why not?"

He laughed. "Meredith, I do not pant for a Lexus. I only pant for you."

"Uh huh," she said.

"Really."

"Really?"

"Care to give it another go to find out?" he said. "I still have 8 hours of vibrator to compete with, here."

She laughed.

"We could pull an all-nighter," he suggested.

"No," she said. "I think I'm happied out for now. You happied me into orbit. My hypothalamus is crying uncle."

His gaze softened, and in his expression, she found a novel's worth of feelings. Pleased. He was incredibly pleased that he had been able to do this. Sated. Tired. Relieved that she didn't expect more from him, though he would have done it if she'd taken him up on his offer. Nine days out of surgery, just nine days, and he was doing so well. She could hardly reconcile the Derek lying next to her with the drugged, unhappy, sick Derek he'd been when he'd woken up from the anesthesia for the first time, shivery with cold and agony and nausea, but unable to do anything about it, unable to do anything about anything. Now, he was buying her Ben and Jerry's, helping her study, giving her sexual satisfaction by the truckload… The weight of exhaustion pulling at his otherwise exuberant expression was the only reminder that he still wasn't quite all right. But it didn't matter. None of it mattered.

She twisted her fingers against the side of his head, drawing her fingertips over the angry, pink scar still visible under the dusting of his hair. The stitches were gone, leaving a prominent but healing wound the shape of a c. His eyelids dipped, and he sighed, pushing his cheek against her palm.

"I love you, Mere," he said. "To coin your phrase, I really, really do. This was… I can't… There's no way… I… You make me feel human, Mere. You make me feel human, and I'm a little bit addicted to it."

She cupped his cheek. "I love you, too. And I'm going to pass."

His eyes brightened. "You are."

"I am."

He smiled at her, his soft, fathomless stare sparkling with a warm familiarity, with confidence, with peace. His long, dark lashes lowered against his face as he sighed with contentment. His naked skin slid against her, and she hugged him until there was no strength in her arms left to hug him with.

He leaned across her and grabbed the carton of Ben and Jerry's from the nightstand. "It'd be a shame to let this melt more than it already has," he said, and he spooned a dripping, heaping pile of the ice cream for her. She moaned as it melted against her tongue. While he kissed away the sticky bits that had dripped onto her chest, she chewed the chunk of cheesecake crust. He rose to meet her with a kiss, and then handed her the spoon.

"I don't think it'll ever taste good again plain," she said as she dipped the spoon into the softened, pink swirls. She spooned him a bite, and they traded again.

He grinned. "We'll just have to do this more often."

Meredith swallowed the next bite, moaning in bliss as the creamy strawberry taste slipped down her throat. "We could celebrate when I pass," she suggested.

"It's a date," he said.

"A date," she confirmed.

They alternated with the spoon until the last soupy bit of ice cream had been scraped from the bottom of the container.


	50. Chapter 48

**Author's Notes: Well, I'm gonna ninja this part in here. This is the first half of the bigger 'part' that I'm working on, but it was a really good stopping place, and I have a looong way to go to finish my original plans for what was all supposed to be part 48. Obviously, this isn't the last part before the wedding like I had planned. We'll just see how long I can manage to torment myself with extra parts, heh. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. This was an issue I wasn't exactly planning on dealing with yet in the LSTverse, but it's been dangling there, Meredith decided she wanted to go there, and this will offer some good setup for the sequel, should I choose to write it. And MerDer talk. With words. It's freaky that way. And a nice change from the show.**

I'm behind again on the feedback. Thank you so much for the comments everyone, I adore/appreciate/devour/love every word :) 

* * *

Izzie, Alex, Cristina, and George exited the locker room in a jumble of cheerful limbs and smiling faces, all clutching sheets of folded paper that had, in their brief moments of existence outside their envelopes, received far too much abuse. Alex smacked George on the back, the paper fisted in his hand crinkling on the fleshy, thudding impact. George shifted with the force of the playful blow and returned the gesture, for once not seeming to mind Alex's tendency toward violence. Cristina wore a haughty, tight expression that said with the barest curl of her lip and the creases around her eyes that she knew she was the best. Izzie glowed, bright cheer rolling from her features like a solid thing he could pluck out of the air with his fingers and taste.

But the person he wanted to see, the person he'd been searching for since he'd finished with Dr. Weller thirty minutes before, the person he intended to spend the rest of his life with, was absent. Derek frowned, trying not to let painful, crushing amounts of concern spirit him to an early grave, trying to ignore the pangs of missing. Missing her. He hadn't seen Meredith since Friday morning when she'd woken him up to say goodbye. He'd paged her when his mother had dropped him off at Seattle Grace that morning for his appointment, but she hadn't answered before Dr. Weller had led him back into an exam room.

Everyone looked up at Derek at once. Derek halted mid-stride, leaning against the railing, feeling frail under the onslaught of all their stares. He took his hand away from the wall, flexing his fingers as he tried to return their smiles and forced himself not to worry at his nonexistent hair. There was nothing to grip, no satisfaction to be had from yanking on phantom curls and tangles, and it would only upset the cap he wore. The cap Meredith had given him.

"Dr. Shepherd," Izzie said, her upward-turning pitch betraying her surprise. "We all passed. Yay!" She pumped her splayed hands in the air as she flashed her brilliant teeth, and then she added as an afterthought, pointing at the door behind her, "Meredith is still changing."

"Congratulations," he said, a coil of relief winding through him. Meredith. In the locker room. Meredith was fine. Meredith had passed. He tried not to worry about why she hadn't called. Why she hadn't answered her cell phone or responded to his pages. He tried.

The crowd of interns – residents, he corrected himself – brushed past him, laughing, joking, jovial. It was only one in the afternoon, but it was tradition at Seattle Grace for all the newly adorned residents to leave early to celebrate. He remembered his first day at work. Chief Webber had warned him that residents would be a scarce resource that day because all the new second years would be absent, so Derek had improvised and asked the brand new interns for help with Katie Bryce. He'd been pleased, because the request for aid had brought him Meredith, not just as an enchanting woman with a captivating presence and the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, but into his awareness as a capable, bright colleague who showed a thrilling amount of aptitude for neurosurgery.

The rest had been history.

He took a breath and pushed through the door into the locker room. Empty, was his first thought. Empty except for her. His gaze fell onto the slope of her back and the stray wisps of her looped-under ponytail, and in that moment, perfection took away his ability to perceive anything but that fact that Meredith was there, he was happy to find her after so long without her, and they were alone.

"Hey!" he said. "So, I seem to be going fishing with Dr. Weller in two weeks. I have no idea how that happened. I didn't know he fished, but—" He breathed when his brain kicked in to interpret the scene before his eyes. "Meredith?"

Meredith sat with her back to him, straddling the small wooden bench of the empty locker room. She wore her pale blue scrubs and a lavender-colored undershirt. Her shoulders curled over as though she were clutching something to her chest, and everything trembled, from her socked feet to the trail of her ponytail to the slice of her shoulder blades against the fabric of her scrubs.

She flinched, sniffled, and rubbed her nose. "H—Hey," she said, her voice low and throaty. She'd been crying. Was crying. "I missed you."

His chest tightened. He swallowed, straddling the bench just behind her as he wrapped his arms around her and breathed her in, letting his torso settle against hers like a cloak. Warmth seeped into him, dulling his ache for her, at the same time leaving him with a profound sort of guilt. Guilt for taking comfort when something was so horribly jilted out of place.

"I missed you, too," he whispered into her neck. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," she said, staring at her lap. "Nothing..."

"Why do I not believe you?" he began, peering over her shoulder. A crumpled, stained piece of paper twisted its way through her clenched fist. The scrub cap he'd given her lay against her lap, crinkled, splotched with darker patches hinting at wetness. Tears? The purple strings trailed over the sides of her quads, forgotten, wispy, and, for a moment, his site blurred on the wild sprawl of lavender sprigs. He tightened his grip around her stomach, trying to ignore the pangs of worry snarling through his gut. "Is that your letter?" he said.

Her fingers tightened around the paper. The blood slipped from her knuckles, leaving them white, cold, and trembling. "Yeah," she said. "I… Yeah."

"Is it…" He swallowed, unable to bring himself to finish.

Is it bad? Did you fail?

Maybe he'd misinterpreted what Izzie had said. But something in his brain refused to believe it. Meredith couldn't have failed. She'd been ready. She'd been more than ready. She knew everything there was to know, at least everything that could possibly be on a test meant for beginners in the field.

The exam wasn't that hard. At least not that he remembered. Though, a decade tended to dull perceptions.

He'd waited the day before, waited for her to call when she got out of her exam, but it was an eight-hour proficiency test. Eight hours, and he'd skipped sleeping while he waited because he'd been jittery, and hopeful, and anxious. For her. He'd known she was going to pass, but that hadn't precluded the act of worrying on her behalf. He'd skipped sleeping, and he'd gotten a monster headache, one that'd started as a small throb and had degenerated quickly into lancing thunderbolts of agony the longer he pushed himself to ignore it.

He'd still waited.

He'd waited until he couldn't think straight, until his mother had shoved his prescription bottle of codeine at him, a bottle he hadn't yet had to use. Skipping sleep and taking a narcotic known for its sedative qualities had been enough to pull him out of the waiting and into dreaming no matter how much he had wanted to hear her voice. He hadn't woken up until his mother had slipped a hand down his back and whispered softly, _Derek, sweetheart, your appointment is in an hour._

He'd blinked, groggily realizing a day had melted away into the ether while he'd been out, and then he'd spent five minutes staring at the empty pillow beside him, wondering. Wondering. Wishing.

"Mere, is it…" he murmured.

"Izzie, George, Cristina, and Alex all went to celebrate," she replied.

"I know. Mere, what's… How…" He reached under her shoulders for the paper. "May I see?"

"Yeah," she said, loosening her grip around the paper.

He pinched it and pulled it away from her, meeting only slight resistance. Her torso wobbled as he shifted to uncrumple the mess. The letter was thick, printed on expensive, extra-white paper that felt slick underneath his fingertips despite the wrinkles and lines Meredith had worried into the grain. He scanned the letter quickly. Dear Dr. Meredith Grey. For a moment, he couldn't read it. All he saw was the box with numbers listed by every specialty the interns were expected to have experience with. General Surgery. Neurosurgery. Orthopedic Surgery. Plastic Surgery. Cardiothoracic Surgery. Neonatal Surgery. The list went on and on. His breath caught on the column of percentages and the emboldened total at the bottom.

"This says you passed," he said. "99th percentile. You didn't just pass it. You destroyed it."

"Yeah," she replied.

"Then what's… Why?" he asked, flustered, unable to stop the broad, glowing smile from overtaking his features as unadulterated pride overwhelmed him. "You had me worried for a second."

A shiver ran through her. "It's over," she said. "It's really over."

"Yes," he said. "You're a second-year resident. You did it."

"I'm a resident," she said, her tone a little dumbfounded. "Not an intern."

"And you'll have your own interns to boss around soon enough," he added. "Not until next year, though."

"I know," she said. "I just… It's over."

"Shhh," he whispered into her ear, tightening his embrace. She leaned against him and started to cry again, into his neck, his shirt, clutching at him. Her torso shivered with spasms of grief. It was an ugly sort of crying. Ugly, red-eyed, sniffling. There was no elegance or sexiness to it, and the sound of her weeping made him feel like she'd taken his heart into her hands, applied a wrench to it, and was twisting, twisting, twisting. He hugged her. "You made it, Mere," he murmured, nuzzling her ear, rocking her slowly back and forth. "You did it."

"I made it," she gasped, hiccupping.

"Did you want to go join your friends?" he asked. "I'm sure they'd want you there to celebrate."

They'd, no doubt, gone to Joe's. He remembered the night he'd found out he'd passed his test. He and Mark and Addison had all gone out for shots, though Addison had been commemorating the start of her internship while Mark and Derek had been memorializing the end of theirs. They'd all gotten drunk. Very drunk. One of the rare times Derek had allowed himself to get pissed to the point he hadn't been able to see straight. He could count the times he'd gotten that drunk on one hand. Turning twenty-one, graduating med school, finishing his internship, finding Mark in his marital bed, and meeting Meredith at Joes… Five times. In his whole life. Except for finding Mark with Addison, they'd all marked happy points in his life, and they were good memories, what blurry bits he could recall. He'd had Meredith rather solidly in his grasp for two weeks, and, though he missed her, she deserved to make good memories with her friends, too. Because she'd made it. She'd finished. They'd all finished. And, really, that was rather astounding given all the horrible moments crammed between the starting line and the moment they hovered in now, breathing, tired, finished.

"No," she whispered. "No, I… Please, just stay here for a minute."

"Okay," he replied. "Okay, I'm here."

She gripped his forearms with her hands, letting her spindly, dexterous fingers run against the soft forest of hairs in a whisper of touch. He sighed, his eyelids drooping shut, wishing he had any idea how to fix it for her. Fix it. He wasn't even quite sure what needed to be fixed. She'd passed. She'd more than passed.

But she was crying. And the crying was what mattered. The crying was what confused him.

His breaths jittered against the slope of her neck as he buried his nose in her hair. The scent of lavender caressed his throat. The locker room bounced noises around, the acoustics of bare tiles and metal lockers stretching sounds and repeating them faint, fainter, faintest as they cascaded into memory. Though they were alone, the sighs of her shuddering breaths, the rustling of their clothes, the slide of skin on skin lapped against him like the undulation of waves against a shore. Rush, silence, rush, silence, rush… In the dips of quiet between her breaths, he listened to the blood coursing underneath her skin, stared dully at the shafts of sunlight slanting into the room through the wide windowpanes. Gradually, her sadness waned into a relaxed sort of comfort. He sighed as the tension slackened. Her fingers slid against his skin, but her grip lost its worry, traded it for worship, as though she were convincing herself he was real. He squeezed her. He was real.

"How'd your appointment go?" she asked.

He grinned into her neck, kissing her softly over the bumps of her cervical vertebrae. "I'm still in one piece."

"I'm sorry."

"That I'm still in one piece?" he said, quirking an eyebrow at her. "I'm kind of pleased about that, actually…"

"No, I'm." Her shoulders started to shake, followed quickly by the rest of her thin, tiny frame. "I'm. I'm…" she sobbed, spasms twitching through her like aftershocks from an earthquake.

"Shhh," he whispered. "It's okay. It's okay." He rubbed her up and down with his hands, devolving frantically into confused worry again. He had no idea. No idea what to do. No idea what was wrong. And no idea how much longer they would have the locker room to themselves.

He stood, slipping his hand under her thighs. He took her up into his arms, gravity pulling her body down until she fit, knees bent over his elbow. Her scrub cap fell into the dipping v formed by her legs and torso. The tips of her toes knocked aside her battered Converse sneakers from their precarious perch on the bench to the floor, where they tumbled into a one face up, one face down pose seemingly fit for a catalogue, but he didn't pay them any mind, and he doubted anyone would want to steal them.

She clutched at him, and he breathed, breathed as her weight settled onto his spine and into the muscles of his back and legs and shoulders. His bones felt like they'd all jammed together, and his legs stiffened under the sudden strain. She'd never been this heavy before, never ever. But he could. He could lift her. And he could walk with her. He was well rested, feeling fine, and he could lift Meredith. He'd always been able to lift her. He gritted his teeth.

"Stop," she whispered as he backed out into the hallway with her. "You're not supposed to lift…"

"Shhh," he soothed. "It's not like I'm going to herniate myself. It's my head that's messed up."

"Derek…" she protested, but he ignored her.

He glanced up and down the hallway, which was empty in the late lunchtime lull, and pushed across the hall to the nearest on-call room. Bunk beds lined the wall. Silence gripped the room, but it wasn't as harsh, and the acoustics didn't mimic every stray sound like the barren locker room did. Thin bars of indirect sunlight snuck in through the slats in the blinds, but it was muted, quiet, soft, like an afterthought more than something meant to light the room. The beds were all made and neat, sheets crisply folded. No one had taken refuge there, it seemed, at least not in a few hours. He sighed with relief, trying to ignore the screaming insistence at the back of his mind that he needed to put her down, and he needed to do it soon. He let go of her with one hand long enough to flip the metal door lock closed. His whole body started to shiver with strain, and he collapsed with her against the lower bunk as gracefully as he could manage, trying to make it look like he'd planned the whole thing. He doubted she fell for it, but she didn't comment.

"See?" he said, panting softly as he ran his fingers through her hair. Her body sprawled against the mattress and the periwinkle blankets, against him, and he leaned over her, staring into the dim, watery, pained gray of her eyes. "I already put you down." He gifted her with his best, sexy smirk as he stretched and settled along the length of her, re-gathering her in his arms. "You want to tell me what's wrong?"

She wiped at her face with her palms, laughing softly in the darkness, but it was a woeful sound, not a happy one, and it made his heart twist. "You know that part of the stress thing?" she said.

"What part?"

"The part where it stops, and you realize you're a wreck…"

He nodded. "I know that part."

"I'm there," she whispered. "I'm so there. I'm…"

"Breathe, Mere," he replied, rumbling against her ears. "It's okay. Breathe. Take deep breaths."

"You don't understand," she said. "I have to cook dinner."

He pulled back to peer at her. "What?"

"I told Susan to come over tonight for dinner," she said. "She called yesterday. I'm sorry. I didn't tell you. I just… She blindsided me, and I was so nervous from the test, I just sort of said yes. And I invited her for dinner. And I just… I just… Oh, god."

"Mere, it's okay," he assured her.

Her fingers clutched the sleeves of his shirt. "But we had plans! Ice cream plans!"

"It's okay. The ice cream will keep. And who says we can't do it afterward, anyway?"

He grinned at her, petting her cheeks with his palms. Her freckled skin was warm and soft. The tiny, faint hairs caught on the pads of his fingers and prostrated themselves under his caresses. She looked so distraught. And worried. Tears hugged her eyes like a layer of liquid glass, making the gray of her irises seem deeper, somehow. Fathomless. A part of him found relief in the fact that her upset had only sprung from the prospect of her stepmother coming over, only the prospect of not having time to have sex. Except for someone like Meredith, her stepmother coming over wasn't really an event classifiable by the word only. Because it was huge.

"It's really okay, Meredith," he murmured. "We'll deal."

"But I don't know what to make," she moaned. "I don't know how to make what I don't know that I'm making. I don't… Izzie made everything last time. But she's out getting drunk with everyone. And I… Oh, god. I'm going to be one of those people who throws catered stuff into the oven and calls it done. It's horrible."

"Meredith, I'm sure Susan wouldn't mind if—"

"I don't even have anything to make. I didn't…"

"Meredith!" he snapped, trying to get her to pay attention. "Do you want me to call and cancel? I can…"

"No, no, I just… Food," she said. "We need it."

"We'll go to the grocery store."

"I don't know what to make."

He laughed. "I'll think of something. Okay?"

She shook her head. "You can't cook."

"Why not?"

"Because you're…"

"Meredith, I'm fine," he insisted. "I'm completely fine. I'm not ready to run a marathon or anything, but I think I can swing dinner for us."

"I didn't mean to… What can you… You don't…"

"Breathe," he said. "I don't what?"

She frowned.

He paused for a moment to self-assess. Was he lying? Was he not fine? She tended to know. It was the only thing he could think of, the only reason she would be this vehemently opposed. He didn't hurt. The headache from yesterday had disappeared, slipping into the blur as his dreams had started. Weird dreams. Narcotic dreams that he didn't really remember beyond the vague impression that they had been very odd. But dreams, nonetheless. His muscles felt a little shaky from lifting her. He didn't think he wanted to try that again anytime soon. Fatigue buzzed behind his eyes. Just a hint of it. Like the whine of a mosquito passing by his ear only to fade. But it was endurable. He'd been enduring it since he'd gotten home from the hospital. It was all normal, and he had no overriding need to rest, yet. He really wasn't lying.

"Mere, I swear," he said, laughing now that he was sure. "I'm really all right."

"But you can't cook!" she blurted.

"I just told you, Mere, I'm fine."

"No. No, I mean, your mother. She said… Your soup thing. It's fake."

He frowned, pulling back. "What are you talking about?"

"You suck at cooking," she said. "You used to be like me."

Her look was so serious and dire that he couldn't help but chuckle. He'd never been like her. He'd come to the conclusion after a year of knowing her that no one could ever be as bad in the kitchen as her. She had the ability to mess up macaroni and cheese. The boxed kind with the fake, powdered cheese. He'd always thought that was impossible to mess up. She managed, though. He'd seen her explode hotdogs in the microwave, flatten toast into soot-patties, and even burn pop tarts. Pop tarts, the breakfast mascot of kitchen-challenged junk food addicts everywhere.

He'd never been the best chef, but he'd had to feed himself through college and med school, and he'd been married to Addison, who, while she could cook, most often didn't deign herself to do it. He hated going out every night, and he hated ordering in every night. Even a simple salad from a restaurant could be death by cholesterol in a bowl. Addison had left all the culinary work to be done by him or not to be done at all. He'd sort of swum to keep from sinking.

But Meredith had very obviously been talking to his mother, very obviously been swapping stories. Part of that realization made him want to groan with embarrassment. He could imagine all the horror stories.

He remembered the time Nancy and Kathy had bullied him into clomping around the house in stilettos and a gaudy, flowery skirt. It wasn't a memory he ever cared to explain or dwell on, but his mother had been aghast. And he was certain that, in one of her many photo albums, his lone experience with cross-dressing had been immortalized. Derekette. Derekina. Something like that. At least, as the middle kid, he'd only had two sisters who'd ganged up on him instead of four. He couldn't imagine what the results would have been if he'd been put under duress by four of them. Four. At least Mark had helped even the score.

The other part of the realization, though, was that Meredith had been talking to his mother. His mother. About him. Meredith felt comfortable enough to talk to his mother. Meredith.

And that made him forget all about embarrassment and, instead, realize a warm sort of thrill. Meredith had found a mother figure she could actually relate with and confide in. Meredith needed that. And he would never, ever begrudge her any of that, stories of his childhood indiscretions notwithstanding.

"Oh, Mere," he said, leaning forward to kiss her. "I haven't lived at home since I was eighteen. At least not full time. I can cook. We'll figure something out."

"Your soup and rice thing is just soup and rice," she protested.

He laughed. "So? It tastes good, doesn't it?"

"Well, yeah," she conceded. "That's kind of what your mother said, too."

"My mother is a smart woman. Come on," he said. "Let's go to the grocery store. We'll figure something out. I promise. That's the cool thing about having family over for dinner. Nobody cares if it's perfect because it's family. Really, we'll be fine."

"Wait," she said, grabbing his shirt as he stood. The fabric cut him in the side when it had no give left, and it felt like it was cutting a furrow into his neck.

He turned. "What?"

She pulled on his shirt, drawing him a step back toward her. She kissed his hand, her lips grazing him from the knuckle of his thumb to the bump that marked the start of his wrist. His fingers curled, and he swallowed. She stared at him, her eyes glazed over with a sudden riptide of sparkling desire.

"Here?" he whispered.

"Yes," she replied.

Somehow, in all their time at Seattle Grace, they'd managed to avoid the on-call rooms for sex. The only time they'd ever had sex in the hospital at all had been during prom. During prom and during that shower the week before.

She didn't give him a chance to answer yes or no, not that he needed it, and not that he ever would have said no. Even if he had been tired and lying about being fine, he would have said yes. He sighed as he collapsed back onto the bed and kissed her.

"Okay," he managed as he hovered against her lips. "Okay, I… Oh." She slipped her fingers underneath the waistline of his jeans, teasing his skin with her fingernails. Then she withdrew and cupped him through the denim. "Fuck."

"That's the idea," she purred.

She popped the top button loose, giving herself more room to stroke him, and he was lost in the overwhelming eclipse of her. His lips parted, eyes glassy with bliss at the unexpected onslaught. She rolled, and somehow, he ended up on his back, eyes hooded, staring up at the latticework of metal cradling the bunk overhead. The metal crisscross pattern blurred to a dull silver, and then all he saw was her, brought into sharp clarity. She smiled, leaning over him, flattening him against the bed.

"I really want you," she said as she clawed the rest of the buttons open. She lunged, quick, desperate, rolling against him hip to shoulder like a settling wave. Her lavender scrub cap fell forgotten by his waist. They didn't even manage to get off their clothes. She peeled away the front of his jeans, popping the remaining four buttons in quick succession and settling the flaps low against his hips, snaked him through the gap at the front of his boxers, shoved her scrubs down to her ankles, and sheathed him deep inside.

She gasped. He gasped.

"No foreplay today, huh?" he joked, panting as she slid along his length.

"I need you," she said, and he let himself get lost in the flurry of her storm against him. He gripped her hips, fingers biting into the layer of skin over her bones and muscles, and slid his splayed palms in an arching trail that found home when he pushed her underwires over the swell of her breasts.

She sighed, straining against him. Her body clenched around him. His world started to tilt at the sound of her gasping, at the hot, slick, tight feel of her as she rocked against him, an unending torrent of needing. She nipped his lower lip, peeling it away from his teeth before plunging. They interlocked, and her taste parted him from what was left of conscious thought. His body started to tense, a small, hitching moan seized his vocal cords, his eyes widened, and he felt the burning, begging hint of an orgasm, urging him for a few more seconds of bliss, just a few more. Please, please, please, just a few more. Please. Begging.

And then she stopped, collapsing against him with a sob. She cried. Was crying. All over him. During sex.

He blinked, forcing his arms to work, to wrap around her despite the driving instinct telling him to grind into her and let the thrum buzzing through him split into the euphoria of release. She clenched around him, and he moaned, but he closed his eyes, counted to ten, skipping various numbers when he couldn't think of them. One, three. Seven. What? He shifted, pulling out of her before his mind exploded with the frenzy of a denied finish. He couldn't…

He swallowed as he re-settled between her hot thighs. "What's wrong?" he managed. A nanosecond followed where he almost didn't care about the answer, and then reality sank in behind the fuzz of desperation. Shivers of arousal became shivers of worry, and he tightened his grip around her trembling, tiny body.

He knew Meredith Grey. He knew what made her smile, what made her sigh, what made her moan and shiver and writhe. He'd drawn countless reactions from her during sex, from exquisite, simple, fluttery gasps of nearly silent orgasms, to screaming, begging, clawing explosions. But he'd never made her cry. During sex. He'd never…

"God, Meredith, what…" he murmured. "Did I hurt you?" She'd skipped the careful moments he always took to prepare her, and she'd been very tight. Worry slammed through him. She'd been very tight. She could have torn something, or… "Mere?"

She shook her head, more of a quiver than anything else. He pulled the elastic tie from her hair and ran his fingers through the sprawl of soft, sun-kissed golds and browns and the coppers between. The indirect light slanting into the room through the blinds made the strands sort of shimmer. Her ear lay against his chest as though she were listening for his heartbeat, and she clutched a tent of his shirt to her nose and lips like a security blanket. She inhaled, inhaled as though the scent of it was to her what lavender was to him. He rubbed her back, letting her gather herself, desperately wanting to push for an answer, but forcing himself to let her go at her own pace.

He didn't have to wait long.

"I passed," she whispered, sniffling.

"You did."

She looked up at him and smiled. "You told me I would."

He grinned back at her, wishing desperately that he had some sort of roadmap for this discussion, because he felt lost beyond the overwhelming desire to fix it. Fix everything. Fix the things that were making her so upset. "I did," he agreed.

"I believed you. On Thursday," she said. "But then I took the test on Friday, and I freaked out, and I didn't believe you. And I was freaking out, but I didn't want to call you, because you're dealing with your own stuff, and you need sleep, except I really did, I really did want to call you, and then Susan called, and the dinner invite thing happened, and I'm…"

"It's okay," he whispered. "Shhh. Everyone gets the jitters. And, Mere? You can call me. When I'm at home. You can always call me… I told you, no kid gloves, remember?"

"I know, but…"

"But what?"

"I did," she confessed. "I did call, and Ellen said you were out cold because you'd taken some codeine, so I told her not to wake you."

His grip tightened around her as he swallowed, a sudden sting hitting the backs of his eyes. He'd slept through her call. He'd missed it. And he'd worried her. A tide of anger coursed through him, anger that he'd pushed himself into such a bad spot that he'd needed the pain relievers. He found it frustrating to be tired all the time, but he'd mostly been letting the frustration simmer, mostly been okay with it.

His mother had been a presence in the house and nothing more. She went for walks with him when he decided to go out, and they talked about all sorts of stuff, stuff she'd missed out on during the last year, the hospital, Meredith, his future, his present, stuff he'd missed out on, developments with his sisters, her landscaping plans for the fall, family things, other things. But, as though leaving the hospital was almost as liberating for her as it had been for him, she'd been able to keep her word and had never pressured him to do anything or not do anything. He never felt like he was under scrutiny. He'd been grateful, and the renewal of his privacy and his ability to decide for himself what he was up for and what he wasn't had done a lot to make him feel better. But still, fatigue lingered as though he were a fly trying to pass through a spider's web. Tendrils clung to every pore and thought.

"I wouldn't have minded being woken up," he said, forcing his frustration away. He was okay. And he was there now. He would work with that.

"But your head…"

"Will hurt from time to time, Mere," he said, grinning in an attempt to reassure her. "I just had brain surgery. Okay?"

"I believe you," she whispered. "I believe you. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," he said. "Just… Wake me up, next time."

She nodded into his chest. "I wanted to," she confessed. "I really did. I missed you, and I wanted to."

He frowned, shushing her, whispering at her. Too much. Too much for her. She'd had her test, worried about her test, been slammed with extra worry for him, and gotten blind-sided by family she wasn't sure she wanted yet. Then she'd found out she'd passed, she'd definitively made it through this awful year, and she'd fallen apart because she couldn't hold it together anymore, a little like a crystal under the constant assault of a perfect pitch of sound. He knew she wanted to work on things with Susan, but on top of everything else, the offer of dinner tonight had been maybe a little too much, too soon for her.

"Mere, are you--" he began, but she cut him off with a long, deep kiss that left him panting with renewed interest. Okay, he'd meant to say. Mere, are you okay? The echo of his intended question bounced around in his head for one heartbeat, two, three, four, and then it died away.

He clutched the small of her back, his fingers slipping along the crease where hard muscle turned into spine and back to muscle. Her shirt rustled, the hemline catching on his forearms. She wriggled against him, and he leaned back against the pillow, sighing as new tension coiled in his groin. Heat collected in the brief, uninterrupted space of her skin against his. Desire, flaring. Like a wall of fire, the needing struck him, newly kindled. Meredith taught him in that moment that the reprieve he'd wrangled out of his body minutes before had been a lie.

"Are you sure?" he said, moaning softly as she slid back, plowing into him.

"I want sex, Derek," she whispered against his neck. "I need you. I'm sure. Sex, now, please."

No reprieve.

He raked his fingers through her hair and winked. "Yes, ma'am."

He loved her, he had to have her, all the time, and there was no reprieve from that. She stripped him to his self, laying bare his flaws, but when she looked at him, all he saw in the deep gray of her eyes was satisfaction, unadulterated. He could never be a perfect man. His list of past mistakes was far too long, and the hint of future errors sprawled before him like the wind and twist of a path demanding to be taken. But when he looked at her looking back at him, he knew he was perfect to at least one person in the world. The most important person. It was the sort of addiction he hoped even an eighth of the people in the world would be lucky enough to find. It was the sort of addiction he, as a healthcare professional, had no problem advertising from the rooftops.

She sighed, laying herself flat against him. She reached back, touching him, guiding herself. A soft gasp buffeted his neck as she slid down along his length, taking him back into her. The union made him quiver with pleasure. They rested, unmoving.

"I'm sorry I'm a mess today," she said.

He interlocked his fingers with hers, drawing her arm forward. "It's okay to be a mess, Mere. I love that you're a mess. I love that you're my mess. And I love you."

He'd found love with Meredith Grey, the only once in forever kind, the kind that made his head spin and his heart hurt and his body shiver. For once in his life, he felt like he had a clue, though he'd never felt more clueless. He never wanted a reprieve from that, and he hoped, when she looked at him looking at her, she felt perfect, too.

She slipped her index finger underneath his cap, toiling with the soft hint of hair underneath. She slid back the fabric, leaning close, her breaths hot and soft against his skin. She hovered nose to nose, staring. Her irises flicked back and forth in the dimness, shining as she took in the sight of him, and her eyes narrowed as she found pleasure in what she saw.

He smiled.

She kissed him, and when she pulled away, her eyes, still glassy with tears, had a sparkle to them, like someone had coiled a bunch of old Christmas tree lights and hung them there behind his head to reflect against her pupils. Her hair fell about her shoulders, loose, unkempt, tangled, a drape of lavender and silk. She began to move against him, slowly, unhurried. Her lips curled upward at the ends in a pleased, adorable smile interrupted by her incisors as she bit her lip in that cute way that told him she wanted to use that mouth for naughty things involving him. Kissing, licking, biting.

He lowered his eyelids, staring at her through the blurry shade of his eyelashes. Beautiful. His breath caught as his fingertips stroked the warmth of her skin. She'd started quickly, unprepared, but they finished, warm, close, and barely moving, just enough friction to set her into a soft gasp and light, twitching spasms.

She throbbed around him, breathy moans and clenching muscles and raking fingers bringing him with her. He spilled into her, and the world swept away, sucked into a mushroom cloud of sensation. Pleasant. Unbearable. Euphoric. Torturous. Because it was the end, and he almost didn't want it. The end. But then, there were always new beginnings. He arched backward. She ran the heel of her palm against his abdomen, sliding his shirt with it. His lips parted as he fell back to the bed, and he inhaled her scent, lavender and woman. It saturated the back of his mouth, leaving him dizzy and humming. She leaned forward, trembling, to kiss him.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Are you okay, now?"

She smiled, her expression sheepish. "More than. I needed that. I can't believe I cried on you. Actually cried, cried, and not just shouted your name in a wilty, crying fashion. I mean, really, you'd think I was a crazy, manic-depressive lunatic, which, I admittedly may have been at one point in my recent life, particularly the part where I was dead, but let's cast that aside for the now. The now in which I'm very happily engaged, sitting on top of my very sexy fiancé, getting lots of great sex and ice cream, a newly adorned surgical resident, on the cusp of inevitable professional superstardom. That now is a very happy place for me. I'm happy. Which makes the crying really pretty inexplicable. Who actually cries during sex except very sad people? And not sad as in boohoo. Sad as in pitiful, though I suppose boohoo people would cry during sex, too. But I'm pitiful, aren't I?" She looked down at him, and he couldn't help but snort with laughter. Babbling. He loved her babbling. He found it adorable.

"Don't answer that," she continued, her lips quirking into a grin as she shared his mirth, petting his breastbone softly with her lithe fingers. He lowered his eyelids, feeling drunk and snoozy and loose and safe.

"I'm sorry," she rambled. "I think I might be PMSing on top of all the rest of this crap. I'm supposed to start on Sunday…" Her voice trailed away, and her fingers came to a quiet stop just over his navel, splaying against his shirt as though she were trying to smooth out the seams in a wrinkled tablecloth. The animated pleasure on her face froze and sank into horror. The blood withdrew from her skin, leaving her porcelain-colored and spooked, and in the moments he watched her mood shift, he felt his insides turning into nauseating, slip-sliding glaciers.

"Crap!" she hissed.

"What?" he said, trying to blink back the panic he felt at her sudden shift in mood. What. What had? She'd been fine, and then she'd been horrified. And it made him feel sick inside, sick and twisting and wrong.

"Get off me," she said, her expression near hysterical as she either ignored or didn't comprehend the fact that she was most decidedly the one on him. Whatever her expectations were, it didn't matter. She clawed backward, scuttling like a crab, pulling apart from him. He gasped as the cold air hit his skin, replacing what had been deep, caressing warmth. His hands shifted, sort of an out of control, protective, twitchy motion that covered his torso as he curled onto his side.

"What?" he said, his word a jerky, bare syllable of frantic upset. "What did I do?"

He clawed at his jeans as he stumbled to his feet, trying to button them, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, but her hysteria was like a vibrating whine in the air, and it tore him apart. His fingers slipped and slid and shook. He'd never seen her like this before. Utterly. Freaked. As in ready to bolt, ready to slap him if he got in the way, not out of anger, but out of desperation, and he had no idea why.

"I forgot to take my pill today," she said, raking her fingers through the tangles of her hair. After she yanked her pants back up, she paced, paced, paced, and then jarred to a halt, turning to look at him, red-faced, wide eyed. "And yesterday. And… Crap, Derek. Crap! Since last Tuesday. I was so upset, I forgot. I forgot. Oh, my god. I forgot. I forgot. We've had sex four times since then, and I totally forgot."

He froze.

For a moment, he didn't know how to react. He had no idea. His muscles started to shiver, and he blinked. Tuesday. Last Tuesday. His surgery. His fault. His lips parted, and a small sound came out, but it was a lost, desperate, twisting thing that didn't find any sort of life or meaning in the air. He pulled his hands back against his scalp in an upset gesture as he let himself receive the offered support of the wall.

Tuesday. Last Tuesday. Eleven days. Not just one or two. Eleven pills, she'd forgotten. An argument came to mind, the one he'd used on Addison at least three times that he could recall over the course of eleven years, the argument that one missed pill wasn't very likely to mean the end of the world, particularly since they'd realized it so quickly. The day of the missed pill didn't usually match the day of conception. Except… The argument shattered to bits, leaving his head strangely silent. They'd had sex four times. And eleven days was plenty of time for the sex to actually start working. Plenty of…

He blinked again, barely starting to process the fact that she was pacing and upset again, pacing and upset, and he was just standing there. He was just standing there, useless, because… His eyes watered, and he stood there, shivering, a slow hint of ache forming underneath his skull from his sinuses to the nape of his neck. He shuffled forward, one step off the wall, two steps, and he found her out of habit, like a reflex or an instinct or something base, something below his awareness, and he crashed into her, halting her. His arms snaked around her, and he breathed her in.

"Shhh, it's okay, Mere," he said, "It'll be fine," more out of habit than anything else, because he had no idea what to say or how to say it. This was one of those moments where he saw the road, the road with all the errors, waiting for him to step into the slow lane and putter along, hitting each and every possible wrong thing on the way to the end of his life. If he wanted her to be pregnant, it was wrong, because she didn't want it. If he didn't want her to be pregnant, it was wrong, because he wanted kids, and she would know he was maybe lying. And if she was pregnant, it was wrong because… He blinked.

She clutched at him, clutched at him like he was a life preserver, her earlier abhorrence of his touch melting away with each breath. For a moment. And then she pulled away, wiping at her face with the backs of her palms. She was crying. Again, she was crying, and he wished he could fix it, he wanted it fixed, but… How was he supposed to… She didn't want… But.

"We have to get groceries, now," she whispered. "We have to…"

He tightened his arms around her waist. "You don't want to…" he began, taking a deep breath when the words didn't quite come out right. He closed his eyes. "You could get… Do you want to get… Morning after pills. It's not too late. For the… Well, for the last two times. Seventy-two hours. They could work. For this. And the… For the studying."

"I don't know," she said. "I don't… You… You…" She inhaled sharply, shaking her head. "No, I can't. I can't. I couldn't."

"Mere…"

"Derek, I am not going to get an abortion when you want kids badly enough to trade your left arm for them. I'm not."

"Progestin isn't abortion," he said softly.

"I won't fucking do it, Derek," she snapped. "It's all theoretical, anyway. Let's just go to the grocery store."

"Okay," he said, leaning into her. He rested his chin against the top of her head and breathed, blinking, blinking. His eyes burned. "Okay, Mere."

She slipped from his grasp and moved toward the bed to grab the discarded scrub cap, and he stood there, staring, numb, shivering. For a moment, he felt nauseated. She didn't want to… Emergency contraception. She didn't want it. Because of him. But she didn't want to be pregnant either.

"Please, get the morning after pill, Mere," he said, found himself babbling, breathless. "Just go up to OB. I'll wait. Or I can go with you. Or… Please."

She looked up at him. "I can't."

"But I don't want you to be pregnant," he snapped.

"You don't," she said, her tone flat with what could only be disbelief.

He sighed. "I want a kid, Meredith. Not a mistake," he said. "And I'm not sure… I'm not sure if I can be supportive if you just let yourself get pregnant like this and then decide it's a mistake later. I'm not sure I…" His voice faltered. He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the ugly, cracking sound he made. "Mere, I really want kids, which you know, and I love you, which I hope you also know. I love you more than my own life. If you get pregnant, I'll do whatever you want. But, if you're going to decide you don't want it, I need it to be something we couldn't have helped." He sniffed, wiping at his face with his palms. "Please, Mere. I need that. I think it might kill me when I hold your hand later in the clinic if you don't at least try the morning after pill, now. Whatever you want if it happens, Mere, but, please, just do this for me. Please."

His chest constricted, and he exhaled until his diaphragm ached. He wanted kids. He wanted Mere. He wanted kids, and he wanted Mere. But he had no idea how to deal with wanting both when both were suddenly real and painful and bright. When having kids was just a dream for someday later, he stood on solid ground. Meredith first. He loved Meredith. But, now, the ground had cracks and canyons and splits, and he couldn't find his footing anymore. This wasn't supposed to be happening.

He stared at her, breathing tightly, unable to get himself to suck down the air that he really needed. He loved Meredith. Meredith first. Always. Always first. But… He blinked. Eleven days. His fault.

She stared back at him, her lips parted, hair falling in a tangle to her shoulders. She leaned against the wall next to the door, crossed her feet and arms, and then her gaze shifted to the floor. She traced the tiles with the tips of her socks, rubbing her hands up and down her biceps as though she were cold.

"You'd... Sit with me?" she asked, her voice a vague whisper. "For an abortion, you'd actually sit with me? You?"

"If that's what you need," he replied.

She looked up, her expression stricken. "But what about what you need?"

"You'd resent me if you had a baby just because I want one, Mere. You'd resent me, and you'd resent it. You can't do that."

"And you'd resent me if I got rid of it, Derek," she said.

"I don't know. I don't know how I'd feel," he said. "But I love you. You're first. That's what I do know."

She stepped closer.

"Please, Mere, get the morning after pill. Please. I don't want to know how I'll feel if you get rid of it after it's real. And I don't want to know how I'll feel if you keep it just for me. I don't. I don't want to find out."

She slipped her arms around his waist, and he stood there, staring blankly at the door as she leaned against him, resting, breathing, quiet. She pulled back after a moment, splayed her palms against his shoulders, and slid her fingers down his arms, tracing first the crease-line where his t-shirt had been folded, and then along the soft hairs of his forearms. She found his fingers, dedicating careful attention to the lines of his thumbs, before pulling his hands into a loose grasp. Breathing softly, she guided him to the waistline of her scrubs, pushing his palms against her stomach and lower, past her navel.

"You're sure?" she said.

He sighed. The flat plane of her abdomen felt warm and soft and silk-touched. She pressed into him with every inhalation, left him slightly with every exhalation. Baby fine hairs caressed his palms as he slid his hands against her. His fingertips touched the first hint of coarser curls, and she sighed, leaning into his chest. The bump of her nose fit with his breastbone. He pulls his hands from her pants and hugged her.

"It's not an abortion, Meredith. It prevents conception. That's all."

"But it's doing something," she said. "It's doing something instead of letting nature figure stuff out."

"So is birth control, Meredith. So is using condoms."

"I know. But it feels different. You're sure, Derek? Because I don't want… That thing you don't want from me? The resentment? I don't want it from you, either. That's… I don't want you to hate me."

"Not possible," he said, smiling.

"I'll go," Meredith said. "Will you wait in the car for me?"

"I can go with you," he offered.

She ran a hand up his back, up his neck, and found the light, soft hairs on his scalp. "No, it's okay. It's just to get a pill. And you're… Why don't you take five minutes? We still need to go shopping."

She kissed him softly, smiled, and pulled away.

He stared at her, almost ready to protest that he was fine, except he wasn't fine. It was obvious. And she knew it. He shivered slightly with tension. His head throbbed behind the rushing clot of worry and other thoughts. He closed his eyes, and it took effort to prop them back open.

"Okay," he said, though he felt vaguely criminal for letting her wander off alone after… Everything.

She nodded, satisfied, took one last moment to straighten her clothes, and let herself out of the room, leaving him behind in the dim quiet. He listened as she padded away on socked feet toward the locker room. His pants were still unbuttoned, though, at some point, he'd managed to get himself back into his boxers, get himself remotely put back together. He swallowed, and shakily went to retrieve his cap, which lay in a crumpled pile against the pillow on the lower bunk. Bars of light fell down over the sheets from the window through the blinds. He buttoned himself up again and sat down against the mattress, breathing.

For a moment, he didn't want to move, and it had nothing to do with tiredness, nothing to do with anything except the fact that moving meant time had jumpstarted, and he needed a moment where nothing was jumping. He needed a moment to re-collect the pieces of himself he felt were scattered about the room like refuse at a junkyard. He wrung his hands together, resisting the urge to curl up and sleep only because that would require more movement. Instead, he picked staring catatonia. Thoughts jumbled in his head, clamoring for an exit, except there was none to be found. His insides were a black hole, and he couldn't get anything straight again because it kept compacting and twisting and multiplying.

The first chuckle that fell from his lips was a halfhearted, dying thing that made it perhaps one bouncing echo around the tiled room. The second and the third had spines and flesh. The fourth felt vaguely wheezy. The fifth seemed pointless. He gripped his arms against his stomach, hunching over, feeling nauseated. He stared at the floor tiles, letting the lines blur. The room smelled faintly of cleaning products, but underneath the lemon and acrid bite, he found the strands of lavender she'd left behind for him. He sighed, letting his eyelids droop for a moment. Just a moment.

"If you could just give me one fucking second outside of the OR where I knew how to do everything right," he said softly, "I'd really appreciate it. Because I don't have an OR right now."

He raised his right fist to his mouth, inhaled, eyes squeezed shut, and then he stood. He replaced the cap, made sure he straightened the lines of his shirt and the way his jeans fell against his body. There was no mirror in the room to tell him whether he'd eliminated his disheveled appearance in favor of the something more kempt, or at least just sexily mussed. He wondered if anything would help at that point as he shuffled forward one step, two steps, three. He gripped the door handle and sighed as the cool metal bit into his palm, and then he walked to the car with the best smile he could manage.


	51. Chapter 49

**Author's Notes: Okay. Here it is. This part was a true challenge to write. I hope you like it. I would really appreciate feedback if you have any :) Thank you so much to Super Special Stand-in Beta, henceforth dubbed SSSB, because I hate typing that out. There's a hyphen. Hyphens are hard. No, really. They are. My pinky hates me.**

* * *

He woke when the car rocked as she sat down, and the door slammed seconds later. The shift from dozing to not was slow, and it made him feel sluggish and strange and not put together like he should have been. For at least a minute, all he could do was lean against the window, his eyes glazed over but open, and stare at the air vents on the black dashboard. He breathed, replacing the old air in his lungs with fresh bits that smelled of new upholstery and lavender. The feeling of hibernation slowly receded, leaving him a little renewed, but still tired. A twenty-minute snooze was not enough to fix him. 

Meredith sat with her forehead resting on the steering wheel, her fingers clutched around the leather guards. Her hair draped forward over her face. Sunlight caressed her crown through the windshield. The air around him baked in the light, and when he breathed, he breathed in heat despite the pleasant temperature outside. He blinked, reaching across the car to rub her back.

"This is not a good day," she whispered as his fingertips touched her shirt. She'd changed out of her scrubs. She wore a thin lilac sweater, one of his favorites, and dark, indigo-dyed jeans. She rolled her head to the side to stare at him, and he caught sight of her eyes underneath the blondish brown strands of hair, glittering softly.

"Oh, Mere," he whispered, leaning over as he pulled her into an embrace, hovering with his lips over the juncture of her neck and shoulder, feeling slightly selfish because he was doing it for him as much as for her. "Mere, it's okay," he continued, breathing her in. "We'll figure everything out. I'm not going anywhere, no matter what."

"I believe you," she replied before repeating like a cavernous echo, smaller and more distant every time. "I believe you. I believe you." Her fingers raked against his back, pulling at his shirt, and he closed his eyes, letting himself rest against her. They would be fine.

She'd taken the pill. Whatever happened now was left to come as it would. Two of the times they'd had sex had been well outside the range of effectiveness of the morning after pill. The third time, two days before, was pushing the limits. Within seventy-two hours was always the recommendation, but the longer you waited, the less chance the pill would have of working. If she was already pregnant, she was already pregnant. The pill wouldn't do anything active, just preventative, and… They'd deal. They'd deal with it as it came. They would.

"Maybe nothing will happen," she whispered, as if she'd read his thoughts.

"Maybe," he replied, trying not to feel the sting at her wistful tone. She wasn't ready. She wasn't ready, and he had no right to be upset about that. She was… She was Meredith, and she was thinking about it for the future, and that was more than he'd ever thought he'd get. From Addison, from her, from anyone. He blinked, shivering as the sting became something wet, and the world blurred away.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?" she whispered.

"I keep doing things that interrupt your happily-ever-after plans."

She inhaled sharply, pushing away from him. She reached up with her fingers, clutching at his chin so hard his bones ached. He twitched, but it was Meredith, and the reflexive need to worm away was absent. She held him firm and stared him down, eye to eye. The gray of her irises flickered with the sunlight as though they were ablaze. For a moment, she was silent, and he was left to wonder what he'd done that time. Then she started snapping, slapping him with word after word after word.

"Derek, number one. Having sex with me? That's a big facet of my happily-ever-after plan. I love you. It's not just sex. I love you, and you love me, and you can't apologize for something that comes from that. Number two. Having brain surgery? That's allowing for future happily-ever-after. You can't apologize for that, either. Because if you hadn't had it? You would be dead, now. Dead. Or a vegetable. And that would freaking suck. If you'd died or gotten broken? I wouldn't be a second-year resident right now. I'd be a catatonic lump, possibly rotting somewhere in a ditch of depression, which is not happily-ever-after. Number three. Crashing the car? There's only so fast a person can react. Crashing into a deer in the dark? Deer are furry, stupid, kamikaze freaks of nature that don't know that they should run the fuck away from headlights instead of going, hey, it's a pretty light, let me see if I can bonk into it or whatever. So, you can't apologize for that. Number four? Addison? I won't say I'm happy you picked her the first time, because you know that'd be a freaking lie, but I get it. I do. Especially after what we've been through the last three weeks. You got closure that you needed, Derek. You needed it. And I don't think we ever could have gotten where we are now if you still had any doubts about your marriage being over in a nuclear wasteland, whoops, Planet Relationship is now an ecological disaster producing mutant fish sense. I know you were going to tell me about her. I believe you when you say you were. Sometimes plans get fucked away, threatened by bombs, ruined by appendicitis, destroyed by lying ex-spouses, twisted by dead mothers, smooshed by deer, cut up with scalpels, or otherwise broken. But I am happy, Derek. I'm happy right now. And it's all your freaking fault. So, don't apologize to me unless that wasn't your goal, and you'd like me to be miserable. You have got to stop guilting yourself over stupid things. It's cute, sometimes, that you've got a knight in shining scrubs complex tacked onto that god complex, but quit it with the freaking guilt. I'm saved. You done good, or whatever. And I know I'm the world's biggest hypocrite about this guilt stuff, so you don't need to comment on that. Okay? God, sometimes I hate you. Because I love you more than anything. Even if I'm pregnant."

His lips parted in surprise as he assembled slowly what she'd said. He stared at her as she pulled her fingers away, crossed her arms, sighed huffily, and glared out the window, her face flushed with anger, and he forgot about feeling indignant over being scolded before he even started. She had a way about her when she pouted. The skin around her eyes crinkled, and her nose seemed more buttonish because she scrunched her face. Something inside him melted.

"Did you even take a breath?" he murmured as he leaned back in the seat. The leather squeaked as he shifted.

Her lip twitched, and the pout became a small, vague grin that made him want to melt. "Possibly."

"You're very bossy," he replied.

She turned and smirked, her face glowing with fiery spirit as she mimicked him down to the way her eyes told him she knew everything already, and nothing was broken. "You love me for it," she said in a way that wasn't fishing for anything, because she knew it as a fact. Two plus two is four. Brain surgeons are morons sometimes. Derek loves Meredith.

He snorted with the slightest disbelief, and then he let himself relax into the reversal of roles. "I do," he replied, smiling at her in a way that warmed him to the center of his spine. He did. "I really, really do." He really, really did.

"I love you, too," she said. She jammed the keys into the ignition, started the car. "But if you blow up my mother's kitchen because you're lying through your teeth about the cooking thing – reference said knight in shining scrubs complex -- I'm going to let Izzie hurt you and make it look like an accident."

He laughed. "Meredith, I'm really not lying. How have we been together for months, and you don't know I can cook?"

She shrugged as she pulled the car out of their parking space. "Derek, I can count the times we've wined and dined on my fingers and toes, and most of those have been at restaurants. Seattle Grace is a schedule-sucking vampire."

"I guess so," he mused.

"Do you fix doors?" she asked abruptly.

"What?"

"Never mind," she said as she pulled the car to a stop at a red light. "It's not important right now."

He rested back against the door and let his eyelids drift shut. The car started moving again, and he found comfort listening to the shushing sound of the air vents, the softness of her breaths, the subtle squeaks when she shifted in her seat. Awareness started to drift, and though he still knew he was in a moving vehicle, everything floated behind his eyes, and sounds stretched like rubber bands until they were far away and quiet. He swallowed as an image slipped into his mind like a wraith, and in the absence of any other distractions, the image became a dream.

He dozed to the sight of Meredith, smiling. They had a picnic spread out underneath a tree on his land by the lake, which glistened like a thousand shards of broken glass under the sinking sun. She rested against him, watching the sunset, her hand splayed over her swollen belly, a small, secretive, loving smile curling her lips. _What do you want to name it if it's a girl?_ she whispered as she grabbed his hand and let him feel the movement under her warm skin. Baby was kicking. The shifting life beneath her skin fluttered against his fingertips.

"Derek, we're here," Meredith said.

A flat moan came from his throat, and the picture melted into the dull black of the dashboard as his eyes drifted open. He blinked, staring, breathing. Meredith touched his shoulder, the warmth drawing him out of his temporary stupor. He lifted his head, realizing the car had come to a stop again, and they sat in a parking lot full of cars. A man with a cart trundled past and began to load his groceries into the Ford Focus parked two spaces down from them.

"Are you okay?" Meredith said as he peeled himself from the window.

His mouth felt thick and pasty with sleep. He wiped at his face and tried to smile. "Yeah," he said. "I'm just a little tired, Mere."

"I'm sorry," she said. She stared at him for a moment, and even despite his grogginess, he noticed the twist and wind of her thoughts behind her eyes. Should she cancel dinner? Should she offer to leave him in the car while she shopped? Should she just drive them home now so he could sleep? Should she, should she, should she. The concern flitted away after a moment, replaced by determination. She didn't comment on his state of deterioration. Instead, she pushed against the door and stood, exiting the car with a heave that shook the frame. "Are you coming?" she asked, as if she weren't expecting him to break or fall or anything of the sort, and he was just Derek again.

He smiled and followed her out into the world, relieved at her decision to leave him be, feeling more alive from just that than anything else she could have said or done for him. The sun felt good on his skin and woke him up with its warmth. For a moment, he rested against the hot metal of the car, forcing a breath down into his torso, deep to the point of aching, and then he pushed away.

He grabbed her hand, and they walked into the grocery store together. The chill of the refrigerated air hit him like a body slam, waking him up the rest of the way. Aisle after aisle of food items and housewares sprawled out before them, ripe for the plucking.

Meredith left him for a moment to grab a shiny red cart from the stash of them between the inner and outer sliding doors. She pushed the cart up next to him, grimacing when the wheels squeaked in loud protest, and then she looked at him expectantly as she came to a stop. They stood side-by-side, ready to conquer.

"All right," he said, crossing his arms over his chest as he thought about the problem at hand. "All right, let's… Steaks. We can do steaks."

Meredith quirked a grin at him. She inched forward with the cart, brushing up against his side with her shoulder. "You can do steaks," she clarified as she tipped up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

"I can do steaks," he agreed. "Is Thatcher coming, too, or just Susan?"

She frowned. "I don't know," she said. Her eyes widened, and the calm that'd washed over her since she'd yelled at him in the car waned. "Oh, god. I don't know, Derek. I didn't ask. I just…"

"It's fine," he assured her before she could devolve too far into worry. "I'm your wingman, remember? I'll just get an extra one."

He pointed toward the back of the store. A neon, cursive sign high along the ceiling in the back told them in glaring reddish-orange where they needed to be. They walked toward the meats section.

She steered the cart and did all of the pushing, but he laid a hand on the handle and drifted along with her absently. Under the assault of colors and smells, his attention wandered without his consent. Pasta sauce. Red. Soup. Red, white, blue, maroon. Rice. Orange. Noodles. Beige. Words, everywhere. Numbers. Price tags. Black. Red. Shelves upon shelves of things. Salsa. Specks of green. Soft strains of some old pop song he hadn't heard since the eighties wrapped around him like a noose, jabbing little pins against his eardrums. The fluorescent glare of lights wasn't like it had been at the hospital. Light saturated everything, as if the only way to ensure a sale of a food item was to keep every nook and cranny from being a secret or surprise, instead airing each fold and crease of every object to whomever even glanced.

He blinked, swallowing. Overwhelmed by a grocery store aisle. Him. He realized, beyond his brief walks in Meredith's quiet neighborhood, his quick trip to the corner market for the ice cream, and his two trips to the hospital for follow-up appointments, this was the first time he'd forced himself into the world at large since his surgery. It'd been hours since he'd woken up. Hours.

Everything seemed brighter than it should have been. Brighter. Louder. Screaming for attention. His focus had been stripped away, and he'd been awake and forcing himself to process things for long enough that he found his eyes easily distracted by a glimmer of text or color.

The light didn't hurt. Not at all. Not like it had before his surgery when he couldn't even go outside without his sunglasses, and he did find immense relief in that. But the light was there. Like an elephant or a malignant brain tumor. Huge. Impossible to ignore. He found himself constantly aware that everything around him seemed more lambent than it should have, and he felt naked under the bath of bright, harsh, beating glare. It was like his brain, rubbed raw by too much trauma, took every sensory input, and over-interpreted it all, plugging it into an amplifier. It felt… Disconcerting.

He clutched the handle of the cart, turning back to Meredith, who was much more fun to look at. He liked to watch the way her hips moved when she took deliberate strides. She had a lot of different ways of walking, but his favorite was definitely the determined shift, shift, sliding sashay, a movement that told the world she knew it was supposed to bow at her feet, and so she conquered the ground unhurried. She smiled at him, though it was a hesitant thing, as though she'd noticed how he'd faltered in the midst of all the flamboyant sensory noise but didn't want to say anything. He slipped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, leaning down to breathe against her neck. She made the world slow down for him, and the lights stumbled into dimness, caught in her eclipse.

"We're grocery shopping," he murmured.

She tilted her head to the side, laughing softly as he nuzzled her behind her ear. "Yeah, it's weird. I keep having the urge to give you a scalpel or something."

"This is new," he agreed.

"Are couples supposed to spoon while shopping for groceries? I'm not sure this is proper shopping etiquette or whatever."

"This isn't spooning. We're walking."

"In a fashion that suggests spooning."

"Do you want me to move?"

"Nope," she said. "But no backseat steering. This is my cart. You can get your own."

"Your cart? I believe it's the store's cart. And have I steered at all? I've been letting you do all the steering."

"Whatever," she said. "It's mine. I got it. You're not letting me do anything."

"You can drive all you want," he replied, smirking against the soft strands of her hair. "I like it when you drive."

They trundled up to the meats section. Cuts of beef caught under plastic wrap, stuck with countless labels, sat in a wide trough. Sale. Buy one get one free! Blaring words. He reached down with one hand, keeping his other on Meredith's hip, and touched the closest cold, soft, squishy slab. Red. Blood collected in swirling puddles against the yellow cardboard bases underneath the containers.

For a moment, he stared. A method of attack coalesced slowly in the din, and he drew the containers close to inspect them one after the other. The process of choosing the right ones was slow going. Conquering the maze of small, New Courier text to find the sell-by dates took him a while, but Meredith leaned back, not seeming to care about the passing time as long as she stood flush against him, soaking up his warmth to combat the chill.

He stacked five boneless sirloin steaks into the cart, one for him, for Meredith, for Susan, for maybe-Ellen, and for maybe-Thatcher, and then he kissed her right temple just because it seemed like a nice thing to do. It was. Her skin tasted soft and soapy and smooth.

"Can you go get a bag of potatoes?" he asked as he pulled away. "I'll hit the frozen section."

"Potatoes come in bags?" she asked, turning to face him, the small of her back against the handle of the cart. "You don't have to… squeeze-test them?"

"Squeeze-test?"

"To see if they're ripe?" she clarified.

"Um, no," he said. "No, you don't. They're not fruits, Mere."

She scowled. "Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing."

"You totally are," she said. "You're laughing at me! You blew up your kitchen, and you're laughing at **me**."

"What? I did not."

"Did, too!" Meredith exclaimed. "Ellen told me!"

Derek blinked as he thought back, back, back. Despite all the togetherness and good family things that Meredith swapping stories with his mother meant, he wasn't sure he liked this whole let's spill Derek's secret, embarrassing life story idea, despite his earlier resolution to be happy about it. What on earth… Wait. Pancakes.

He'd been making pancakes. Some of the batter had gotten stuck underneath the pan and gotten burnt, which had started the whole disaster. It had smoked. Just a little. Enough to make him nervous. In the shuffle to find out what the source of the burning was, he'd knocked a lot more over, and… His memories blurred, but they ended with a brilliant plume of smoke that, though it had only lasted about a minute, had been a huge excitement, and had left a lot of smoke damage behind.

"It was a minor…" he said, searching for the proper word, "Scorching. It was a minor scorching. There were no explosions."

Meredith smirked. "She said she had to replace the countertop."

"It was ugly," Derek protested. "She was looking for an excuse to remodel."

"Sarah says she has pictures!"

"She does not."

"Does, too!"

"Does not," he said. "I would remember a camera."

Meredith grinned. "I'm going to get her to mail me copies for proof."

His jaw fell open. She was going to use his sisters to gang up on him? She was… Well, that was hardly fair. Hardly fair at all. She didn't have brothers for him to conspire with. And she didn't have a mom to ply for embarrassing childhood stories. It made him sad, but at the same time, annoyed at the utter lack of possibilities for revenge. The warring emotions made an odd dichotomy in the tumble of his thoughts. Something clogged up his throat, his eyes burned just a little, and he settled on wistful happiness.

Meredith might not have brothers or a mom that knew her when she'd been little. But Meredith would have sisters-in-law and a mother-in-law, and she had a stepmother who cared enough to invite herself to dinner. He glanced at the steaks in the cart, swallowing thickly. Five. Months before, they would have been hard-pressed for three if they'd even tried to have dinner like this at all. He doubted they would have. He turned to find her staring at him.

"I'm…" He sighed. "Okay, fine. Fine, maybe, at one point in my very young life, I may have contributed to the final destruction of our kitchen." He shifted into a smirk. "But it was a bad kitchen, Mere."

"A bad kitchen," Meredith said, her eyes glowing and her skin turning pink with what he could only assume was suppressed mirth. "As in a naughty kitchen, a possessed kitchen, or a poorly equipped kitchen?"

"All three?" Derek hazarded.

"Derek…"

"Just get a bag of potatoes," he said. "I'm going to find some frozen broccoli."

"Why frozen?" she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Do you not know how to fix real broccoli?"

"I do, too," he said.

"Do not," she countered. She slipped her palms up his chest and rested them on his shoulders, squeezing as she stared up at him through hooded, sexed eyes.

"Do, too," he said, but his voice seemed small and choked.

She took a step closer, obliterating the inches left between them. She tipped up and kissed him on the lips. His eyes fell shut as she pillaged his thoughts. "Do not," she whispered, nipping his lip. Her incisors slid along his skin. He moaned.

When she pulled away, the world moved too slowly. He blinked, watching their cart slide backward as Meredith stepped up against it accidentally to catch her balance after the kiss. A woman with a basket moved past, gabbing on her cell phone, looking frazzled and careworn. "What price is it over there?" she said, but her words seemed loping, low-pitched, and wrong. She stared at the ceiling, waiting for a reply. "It's cheaper here, then," she said as she parted off into a side aisle.

Derek breathed, pulling Meredith back into his embrace. "Distracting me?" he said with a wink.

"Is it working?" she replied.

"Oh, yes," he said. "But you're playing with fire."

He returned her kiss, tilting her against the cart. She gasped, her body twitching as she fought for balance. Her hands flung backward, and she caught the handle. He squeezed the small of her back, roaming slightly, letting his fingers slip under her waistline to toy with the line of lace beneath. She tasted warm and alive and his, and the world started spinning again, but it had nothing to do with being overwhelmed by anything except her. She always took away everything else.

She licked her lips as he pulled a millimeter away. He stared, counting the soft, flaxen hairs dusting her skin, watching the way the blush crept across her skin, cataloging every freckle, basking in her heat. The harsh fluorescent lights saturated her eyes, making them appear almost green. Watercress. Flecks of foreign pigments flickered against the well of color, making her seem otherworldly, enchanting, and he wondered how on earth it was possible to have his breath stolen from him every time he looked at her. She was new and sexy and fascinating and beautiful no matter what the setting, and he never felt a sense of repetition when he stared at her beyond the fact that he knew he loved this woman.

"We're making out in a grocery store," she said, her soft breaths buffeting his chin. She rubbed against him, and he felt right, and happy, and home, even in the awful bright cacophony of other things. "Does this mean we're domesticated or whatever?"

"I don't think so," he said.

"We should maybe finish shopping," she said. "This is probably illegal."

He nodded, bumping his nose into her cheek, resting his forehead against her. "Maybe."

"Maybe we should finish shopping, or maybe this is illegal?"

He sighed. "Both."

The bland pop music loitering in the air crackled into silence, replaced by a scratchy, jarring announcer asking for a manager for a price check. He flinched at the noise, and she inhaled. Stopping. He swallowed. Stopping was probably good. Stopping before his jeans started to feel uncomfortable, before his mind degenerated into thoughts of naked Meredith. Naked and panting and his and… Stopping. Before the price check manager took a detour and decided to tell them that French kissing in the meats section was unacceptable and to, please, take their patronage elsewhere.

Stopping.

"For your information, frozen broccoli is totally real," he murmured, hot and breathing against her skin, trying to make himself pull away. "It's just…"

"Already prepared with cheese and stuff," she whispered.

He nodded. "Well, yeah."

"I'm onto you, Derek Shepherd," she said with a smirk.

"Hey, at least I'm not getting one of those frozen Prego lasagna in a box things," he countered, "Which is what you would have ended up doing if I wasn't here."

"But you're getting broccoli in a box."

"Do you want to cook?" he said.

She laughed. "No."

"Can you make anything that's not canned?"

"No."

"Then be quiet," he said.

"Okay," she said, grinning. She pecked him on the lips, quick, like a habit, and pulled away, making the decision to stop for the both of them. He sighed, but he didn't miss her quiet, taunting whisper. "Broccoli challenged."

"Broccoli is a challenge," he said.

She released the shopping cart into his keeping, laughing in a way that stumbled down his spine, warming him, making him unable to do anything but grin back at her. She peered over her shoulder as she walked off toward the produce section. "Pick up some Ben and Jerry's. That's frozen, too."

"Okay," he said.

He wrapped his fingers around the handle of the cart, taking deep, cleansing breaths, trying to get sex out of his system. They'd just had sex. He didn't need sex again. He didn't. But… He shook himself, feeling sort of like a wet, shaggy dog as he tried to un-stick his civilized self from the baser, more needy bits, but that only brought him back into the grocery store. The bright, colorful, overwhelming grocery store.

He sighed, pushing the cart into the frozen section. The cart seemed heavy and sluggish, though there was hardly anything in it. One of the wheels seemed to be stuck. It spun around and squeaked a lot, but didn't seem to roll at all, which had a dragging effect on the whole cart. He hated that he was sort of tired by the time he got to the frozen vegetables. It was a damned grocery cart.

He opened the freezer, letting the blast of wispy, misty cold air wrap around him. The glass fogged as the air condensed. He slipped his eyes shut and inhaled the dry, sweet scent of stale ice. After two more breaths, he stared at all the colors on the boxes. Carrots. Orange. Beans. Green. There. Broccoli in cheddar sauce. Green. Yellow. He grabbed the slippery box and tossed it in the cart. It was a small box, so he grabbed a second. The swing door slammed shut, and he moved on to the ice cream, only to realize Ben and Jerry's had entirely too many flavors. He tried to read all the labels, tried to sort out all the colors and pictures, putting his forehead down against the glass because it was cold, and it felt good against all the visual noise. His fingertips brushed down the glass, slipping on the moisture.

A loud series of thunks shuddering through the air from the direction of his cart made him blink, but it wasn't until Meredith's warm arms slid around his waist that he sighed and pulled himself off the glass. "Derek," she whispered, "Are you okay?"

He laughed softly. "Of course I'm okay."

"You seem…" Her voice trailed away, and she didn't finish. "I'm sorry. I'll stop. Bad mother hen or whatever. Bad. I know you hate it." She sighed.

He didn't answer her. Instead, he reached into the freezer, swallowing as he grabbed onto what he thought was the Strawberry Cheesecake, except when he pulled it out, he realized it wasn't. It was some other pinkish, fruity-flavored thing. Cherry Garcia. He put it back, slightly frustrated, and grabbed the correct one the next time.

He turned to put the carton into the cart, only to pause. His fingers started to hurt with the cold, but instead of letting go, he squeezed it harder.

"Mere…" he said as he stared down at the cart. Next to the bag of potatoes and the steaks sat a pile of pregnancy test boxes, and a slime-green and black box of Night Light condoms. He didn't find the 'Rise and Shine!' logo nearly so amusing when it was sitting next to over a hundred dollars worth of pregnancy tests.

She smiled at him, but her eyes watered in a quivering, ready-to-cry way that made him want to wrap her up in his arms forever and never let her go, except something kept him away. Exclamation points, happy pictures of smiling women, percentages. Early and accurate! He blinked, staring.

"I've been off birth control for eleven days and I haven't had a withdrawal bleed yet," she said, her voice hesitant and small and scared. "I'm supposed to get one of those soon. Right? But I wasn't sure… I mean I don't know… I have no idea when I'm supposed to have a real period. There's no way to tell if I'm late. Or early. Or… But even if it's negative, that doesn't mean it's negative. Right? I mean, you probably know more about this stuff than I do. You were married to a gynecologist. I mean. Never mind. But how sad is that? I should… Anyway, I wasn't sure which brand to get or how many I'd need to take, so I just sort of grabbed... A few. Okay, a lot. A lot, but I don't know… Maybe I should get a blood test instead. I just… Well… Yeah. Is this too many?"

He clenched his fist around the ice cream box, staring at the cart, unable to look away, unable to answer in any meaningful way. Something inside him wanted to break. He felt like his skin was stretched too thin against his bones. He felt like he wanted to throw up. He felt like he wanted to cry. He felt like he just wanted it all to go away. "We'll…" he said, but his voice failed. He chucked the ice cream container into the cart. He cleared his throat. "It'll be okay. I swear." Except he felt like he was lying. Lying. Lying.

"I believe you," she said, which made him feel a little worse. "And you still owe me some ice cream tonight."

"You really want to?" he whispered, his eyes trailing to the condoms. He hadn't really registered the meaning of the box. She'd gotten the glow-in-the-dark kind. She hated those. But she knew he thought they were fun. She hated those, and yet she'd gotten them anyway.

"I really want to," she confirmed.

_Get off me._

He dug his fingers against her skin, pulling her tightly against him. The something that wanted to break broke, and he took a deep, pained breath that sounded sort of like someone had wrenched his voice away. He shoved himself up against her, burying his nose in her hair as though he could make himself a part of her.

"You still… You really want to?" he found himself repeating, desperate and soft.

Her palms ran down his spine. "Well, um. Yeah. Why wouldn't I?" she asked, as if he'd asked a truly confounding question. "What part of the sex with you is a facet of my happily-ever-after plan didn't make it through translation from Meredith speak to Derek speak?"

"I hope you know that I desperately love you," he said.

"You practically glow with it," she deadpanned.

"Tonight, I will," he said with a smirk. Tonight. He couldn't even describe the relief he felt. He hadn't even realized he'd… His whole body shook, and he stood there as she hugged him, easing the tension away. He rested his chin on top of her head, sighing as the lavender of her hair drenched his sense of smell with flowery reassurance. She wanted to. She still…

She wanted to. She wanted him. She'd said it. She'd kissed him. But it hadn't been real until he'd seen that ugly green box and recognized it for what it was. She wanted him. Not even in the eventually, after I'm back on birth control and I've confirmed my life isn't screwed up sense. She wanted him right then.

"Derek," she whispered.

"I'm okay, Mere," he said. "Really. Shall we pay for this stuff?"

She pulled back and grinned at him. "Yeah," she said.

The trip back to the house passed in a vague blur, even though he failed to doze. He knew he needed it, and yet, something inside had snapped back to life, and he felt better. So much better. Like five thousand pounds had sloughed from his shoulders and piled on the floor by his feet, dry, powdered remnants of his anxiety. His muscles felt less tense, and breathing didn't seem like a depressing chore.

Meredith trudged upstairs to stash the pregnancy tests and condoms in their bedroom, away from the prying eyes of Alex and Izzie, leaving him with the remaining grocery bags. He smiled when he realized she hadn't thought to tell him not to lift things. Granted, steaks weren't exactly a weightlifter's paradise. But it was something.

After he pulled out the potatoes and broccoli boxes and set them on the center island next to the plastic bag with the stack of steaks inside, he glanced at his watch. It was after three-thirty. He wasn't sure when Susan would be arriving, but three-thirty was still a little early to start cooking.

He put the bag of steaks in the refrigerator, the broccoli boxes in the freezer, and then he collapsed his head into his hands and sighed, elbows resting against the hard surface of the counter. After two blissful seconds of stillness, he forced himself away from the support of the hard surface and wandered out onto the front deck, gravitating toward the swing, where he eased down to sit and rock in the soft breeze. He'd found himself doing that a lot lately, needing to sit and rest but not wanting to hide away and rot in the dark.

He blinked as a little girl on a bike shot past, ringing the bell on her handlebar. She turned as she flew by, grinning a toothy grin at him. "Hi!" she said, just like she always did, and then she disappeared down the hill and around the corner. He smiled faintly at her parting figure, but the expression wavered and disappeared in the space of a breath.

Derek had been worried. He'd really been worried. About the baby. About the maybe-baby. That it would change something between them, even when it was still a concept. There was still a chance it would. But the now wasn't broken yet. The now was still intact, and the relief that that solidity brought to him was like the weightlessness he'd felt when he'd finally walked through the sliding doors of Seattle Grace, back out into the air, onto the sidewalk. Despite everything being messed up and bad, he'd felt so happy in that one moment, he'd thought he was going to burst. The sun had hit his face. He'd breathed, and smiled.

_The light feels good._

The light felt good. Except the light was just another word for engagement. Meredith. Living. Breathing. Being. What comes will come, he told himself, and for the first time that day, he felt almost strong enough to believe it. Almost, because then he thought about Meredith, really thought about her, instead of her outward okayness, and everything compacted like a dying star.

They'd shared themselves and maybe built something. Something huge. Something incredible. Something that made his heart hurt just to think about because he wanted it so badly. A baby. Theirs. A tiny someone, alive, breathing, with ten little fingers and ten little toes. Someone to ask him one day why the sky was blue and how airplanes worked. Someone who would be on Earth long after he was gone, building one more brick in the edifice of immortality around the Shepherd clan.

There was a very real possibility that she would want to take a wrecking ball to it, but he loved her too much to tell her he couldn't watch, and he loved her too much to not watch or not to be there at all, even though he felt like a piece of glass, ready to shatter. He wasn't sure how any of that would make him feel. He found himself wishing she wasn't, wishing, wishing, wishing, and that made him feel a little sick. Because somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he wasn't lying when he wished she wasn't.

Everything was wrong. She wasn't ready. She didn't want one yet. Having one now would very possibly wreck everything they'd built, and the process of ensuring she didn't have one yet might spook her out of ever considering it again. That prospect was like quicksand for him and just made everything feel worse. He still wanted kids. The tug of war between the wanting and the praying not to have made him feel gnarled up inside, like some sort of dark weed had taken root.

But at least the now was okay.

The light felt good. Or did it? Really? Now that the original elation had died.

He stared out at the yard, sighing. The bright green darkened as a ruffle pattern of thick clouds swirled past the sun, dipping everything in shadows. A plane rumbled overhead, invisible beyond the ceiling of stratus clouds, and when he blinked, he wasn't on the swing anymore.

_It's magic, Derek_, his father had said as they had sat on the hood of his car, an ugly orange Buick, watching planes thunder down into LaGuardia. Once in a while on his Saturdays off, his dad would take him somewhere in the city. No Mark. No stupid sisters. No mom. Just him.

_Planes don't fly by magic! _Derek had insisted as he'd pulled his hands away from his ears, trying not to gape at the huge Boeing that had just roared overhead.

_Sure, they do._

_But magic is fake._

_Magic is real. It's whatever we don't understand. When your teacher tells you about Bernoulli, then it won't be magic. Until then, enjoy the curiosity._

_But you know everything already. How can anything be magic?_

_Oh, Derek, _his father had said, deep, blue eyes glimmering with amusement._ I don't know everything. In the grand scheme of things, I hardly know anything._

Derek had slipped down off the hood of the car, scrabbling against the hot metal as he tried to get his footing on the ground below. Being six had meant the ground was closer, but not nearly close enough. A strong hand had caught his shirt collar and righted him.

_What's still magic then?_ Derek had asked, shading his eyes from the sun as he'd looked up to find his father leaning against the side of the car, arms crossed as he pondered his small charge.

_The spark you'll feel when you meet the right woman is magic, _his father had explained._ I don't think a science book will ever figure that one out. I imagine it's a bit like getting struck by lightning._

_Girls are gross._

His father had smiled, deeply. The skin around his eyes had crinkled, and he'd run his hands through his dark brown curls. _You won't be saying that in a few years, _he'd said.

Another jet had rumbled overhead, close enough to the ground that everything had shaken, the air had vibrated, and Derek had felt like his chest was falling apart. _It's too loud, Dad, _he'd said, clapping his hands back over his ears.

His dad had smiled. _All right. _

Then they'd gone home.

"What are you thinking?" Meredith asked as she sat down beside him on the swing.

He glanced up, ripped away from his reverie, and sniffed, wiping at his face. "Nothing," he said. "I don't know…" He hadn't ever remembered that before, and yet, now, it seemed like his dad stood before them on the lawn, living, breathing, defined to the specks of his pores. Derek turned to look at Meredith, blinking.

Her hair blew softly in the breeze, little twists and waves of it flying loose from her sloppy ponytail. The shadow dispersed as the sun found a gap in the ribbons of clouds. She seemed lighter on the deck. Sun-kissed. Beautiful. The way the light hit her eyes made them seem to shine, and it washed the gray away until only green remained. Stark, fathomless, deep green, like the grass in March before the rains returned all its life, or a deep emerald, or... Water bright with algae. Beautiful. His.

His chest tightened. Magic.

Meredith regarded him for a long moment. She turned to stare out at the yard, shifting closer to him, hip to hip. "Me, too," she whispered. "How bad is it on a scale of one to ten?"

"It's not bad, Mere," he said. "It's just… I don't know."

She sighed. "I'm kind of ninish."

He turned to her, his throat constricting with ache. "Ninish?" he said, reflexively wrapping his arms around her. She collapsed against him at the invitation, curling up. She drew her knees up and rested against his lap, breathing softly. "Mere…" he said. "I'm sorry."

"Thatcher fixed this swing," she said, ignoring his apology. "He stuck a peg in it when I was little to keep me from catching my fingers, and when he was over here last time, he took it out." As if to emphasize her point, she wriggled, and the swing creaked softly, shifting back and forth an inch.

"Oh," he said. "I was wondering." He brushed his fingers against the side of her head, clawing little runnels into her hair as strands slipped loose from the band that held them tight. The strands felt soft against his fingertips, soft and baby fine.

"I'm not sure if my mother knew I even played out here."

"Oh, Mere."

"I used to play in my wagon and try to get it rolling down the hill, but he'd pick me up instead of letting me plummet to my death or whatever." She smiled, staring blankly at the yard. Her torso hitched. "I'd shriek and say I was flying. I don't remember much. After he left, Mom took me to Boston, and she hired a nanny."

_I think I'd be a crappy mom._

"That wouldn't be you, Mere."

"How do you know?"

"I know."

"But how?"

"Mere…"

Her fingers clenched around his pant leg. "Be honest, Derek."

He swallowed, trying to blink away the glare. The lawn seemed bright and sharp against his tired eyes and his overloaded head, though at least the sight of ghosts long dead had faded. He didn't want to fight with her. He didn't want to talk with her at all, really, because he knew he'd say something he'd regret. But in that moment, feeling her warm fingers worrying against the legs of his jeans, watching the way the color of her eyes shifted with the roll and coil of the clouds, his resolve not to tell her anything broke. He needed… Someone. He needed. And in that moment of weakness, that moment when his throat closed up, he realized she was the only one left on the planet he felt comfortable with, even when in his soul he felt naked and ugly.

He had no deep binds to any friends. The chasm between him and Mark was mending, but the space between them still spanned miles. Preston was a colleague more than a friend. They shared. Sometimes. Superficially. But that was it. Dr. Weller was something new and fresh, but the relationship was nothing more than tenuous, casual small talk, at least not yet. Derek had Meredith, and that was it.

He let the needing win. Despite his stalwart desire to let Meredith figure out on her own what she wanted. He needed to share with someone, or he'd break, and she was whom he shared with when he chose to share. He needed.

Walk away, his brain said. Walk away before you snap.

He sat still, and he opened his mouth to speak.

"If Thatcher had gotten sick on the brink of your mother's intern exam," he said, "Do you think she would have stayed with him in the hospital all week instead of learning surgeries?"

"No. Well… No."

"That's how I know, Mere," he said. She'd stayed. She'd stayed with him when he was weak and sick and tired and unattractive. All the time, she'd stayed. Still stayed even now, when he was much the same, only a little more mobile. And not once had she made it seem like an obligation. Ellis Grey would have scolded Meredith for not being focused, for letting her career slip by so she could be with an older man who wanted to be idolized. Ellis Grey would have laughed and gone to meet Chief Webber in a coat closet instead, would have gone to meet her real man while Thatcher lay sick and even more useless than usual. "You're not her," Derek said. "I love you, and I know you're not her. I know it, but I get why you don't."

"Derek…"

He closed his eyes, stilling the motions of his hands against her hair because he had to clench something, and he didn't want it to be her. His nails dug into his fists, and he breathed harshly, trying to force away the sudden pit of writhing, ugly fire welling up in the pit of his stomach. It didn't work. "It makes me so angry it hurts," he said, his voice low and flat. Stop. Stop it. He couldn't. He couldn't stop.

She sat up and kissed him, her soft lips sliding down his cheek as she shifted into a nuzzle. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm really sorry I'm so messed up. I'm trying to be better."

"What?" he said, looking down at her, appalled. "No. No, I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at them. You had a terrible childhood. I'm sitting here thinking if we made a baby that would be the most precious gift in the world to me aside from you, and that there's no way it could ever be a mistake, even if the timing is bad, all while you're sitting here wondering if it's even possible for you to be a functional mother, and I hate them, Mere. I think I hate them for it."

"Derek…"

"I was told that meeting the right woman would be magic," he said, a wry laugh falling from his lips like breaking glass. Couldn't stop. Couldn't stop. He knew he should, but he couldn't. "You were shown that meeting the right man would be impossible. How am I supposed to…" Compete. "I can't…" Fix it. His voice fell away and he sucked in a hot, sharp breath.

"I figured out it wasn't impossible on my own, Derek," she replied in the lull. "I met you."

He swallowed. "And then I went back to my wife."

He blinked, raising his palms to his face as the world turned into a blur. Why was he such an emotional mess lately? Why? Everything seemed so much louder. Everything. Not just colors and smells and sounds. Feelings. Everything. He pressed the heels of his palms against his tired eyes and sighed, but the sigh caught and jerked and split apart into several shorter gasps.

"That wasn't what I meant," she said, her fingers clutching harshly at him. "I thought we were okay with this."

"It doesn't mean it didn't happen," he said. "I helped you get here. I helped you be this person who thinks she'd be a crappy mom. You were happy, and then I met you, Meredith. I left you, your mother died, and you died. And now you're here. Thinking what we made is a mistake."

A soft, sputtering noise fell from her lips, and he felt her stiffen. "I'm not thinking anything, Derek!" she snarled, standing up, leaving him bereft. "I don't know what to think! I've barely had an afternoon to process this. Not even. You're the one who was talking about abortions and morning after pills and god knows what else."

_One plus four equals nine._

"I can't talk to you about this," he said, her anger fueling him to match. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. "I want to, but I can't!"

"Why the fuck not!" she hissed.

"Because after everything else, if I manage to guilt you into something you're not ready for, and you're unhappy for the rest of your life, I'll never forgive myself. I'm having a hard enough time forgiving myself as it is. I'm trying to keep my opinions out of it, and I can't, Meredith. I just can't. I shouldn't have opened my mouth."

The flush on her face receded. She blinked, and a pair of fat, ugly tears spilled out, and he hated it. He hated that he'd made her cry. He felt his insides twist, and he wrapped his arms around his stomach, rocking in the swing, staring out at the lawn. They were fighting. They were fighting about a baby. A maybe baby. And he couldn't breathe. He felt sick to his stomach. Nauseated. Dizzy. Why hadn't he stopped?

_One plus four equals nine._

She sat back down and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, leaning against him. "Derek…" she said.

"What time is Susan supposed to get here?" he asked, swallowing, trying to pull himself back together.

"Five-thirty," she said. "Derek…"

"It's fine. I'm okay. I'll go start… I'll… It's not even real yet. You're not. We don't know," he whispered. He stood, releasing himself from her grasp. "Let's just drop it. Please. Drop it."

Her mouth fell open, giving him a glimpse of the shiny white tips of her incisors. She struggled. For a moment, she struggled for a word, and so help him, he left her there. Struggling. Gaping at him. Because he couldn't deal with this. He couldn't do this right now.

He slammed the door behind him as he went back into the house, but as soon as she was out of sight, his pace fell into lumbering, and the fight seeped through the sluices of his mind. His eyes felt sticky and hot. His head was starting to hurt again, but it was the sick feeling that made it the worst. The sick, twisting churn of everything.

"Please, stop," he begged as he collapsed at the kitchen table. The wood felt cool against his cheek and his elbows and the rest of his skin that touched it. He lay there, heaving breath after breath into empty space.

She didn't speak as she entered the room. He felt her standing there behind him. Perhaps she bit her lip, concerned, confused, unsure. He sat there, eyes closed, breathing, just wishing it would stop. She took one step and then another, her feet hitting the floor softly, soundly. Her fingers spread against his shoulders. She splayed them, and began to knead, and he groaned as she pulled the tension from him like a weaver threading silk.

"I'm sorry," he said breathlessly as her fingers split apart knot after knot.

"Be quiet," she replied, her voice grim and serious. "We're dropping it. This is me dropping it. Do you need to sleep?"

Yes. "No. I'm okay."

"Should I cancel?"

Yes. "No. I'm really okay."

She sighed, as if she knew he didn't mean it. Her fingers tightened against his skin, shifting her ministrations out of comfortable pain into hurting. "So, what can I do to help then?" Meredith asked. Her hands stopped abruptly, as if she'd checked herself and realized she was treating him like a pile of clay more than a person, and then resumed, softer, soothing.

"Help?" he asked dumbly, lifting his head from his hands to peer blearily at her.

She lifted her hands away from his shoulders, leaving his muscles warm and aching with the ghost of her attentions. He let his eyes slide shut slowly, opening them again to find her at the refrigerator, pulling out the steaks, the broccoli. The broccoli boxes thunked down against the countertop. She sprawled the plastic bag containing the steaks on the counter. The material crinkled as she slammed her palms into the mess in a let's-get-to-it gesture of determination, which melted away as if she'd suddenly realized she was dealing with food, and Meredith Grey didn't do food.

Meredith dug through the bag, peering at their spoils of war. "What can I do to help make dinner?" she clarified as she settled into ticking, nervous movements that resulted a neat little stack of steaks, as if piling them up would be helpful, despite the fact that he knew in moments he would just be tearing all of them open. He watched her, dumbfounded for a moment, and then the last of his upset sluiced away.

The skin around her eyes was red and puffy, and she drew the backs of her palms against her face. She sniffled, not hiding that she'd only recovered from being unhappy and yelled at moments before. But she was there anyway, trying to fix him, trying to help him, trying to… Meredith didn't cook. And she was trying so hard.

He loved her. Like an avalanche, it crushed him, and he pushed himself up from the table, standing, wobbly, letting the change in elevation sink in before he wandered to the counter. He loved Meredith Grey. He did.

He smiled at her and gestured to the breakfast table. "You can sit very far away and just watch."

"But, Derek," she said. "You can't… Please, let me help. I'm… This wasn't supposed to all get sprung on you. It's only been eleven days. It's only been eleven days, and you're fixing emergency dinner for my fake mom. You…"

"I'm fine, Meredith," he said. "I'm just..." He didn't even know what he was, anymore. He felt like a goddamned yoyo, springing back and forth between the dips of awful, twisting depression and the highs of realizing Meredith was about as far from running away as she could possibly be, and she still wanted him despite everything. Whiplash set deep into the muscles she'd relaxed, and he slumped, but he couldn't stop staring at her staring at him.

"I want to help," she said. Determination flickered in her eyes. "Even if it's just watching water boil or something. I don't know. Give me something to do."

He watched her for a long moment before taking a breath. "You can put the potatoes in."

"Now?"

"Yeah."

She approached the bag of potatoes on the counter like she would an open body cavity, staring meticulously at all the details. "Okay," she said. The bag crinkled and thumped as she examined it. "What do I do?"

"Preheat the oven to 400 degrees, rinse the potatoes off, stab the potatoes with a fork, put them on the rack, and set the timer for an hour," he said.

She looked up from her quarry. "Really? That's it?"

He smiled, leaning against the counter. The edge dug into his palms. "Really, that's it."

"Huh," she said. She took the bag of potatoes in a classic football grasp as though she were trying to protect them from damage. He grinned, watching her as he leaned on his elbows, forgetting all about the steaks, mesmerized by the way her body moved, by the way the diamond ring on her finger caught the light even in the dim. She moved to the utensil tray and pulled out a fork and a knife, and then sidled herself up to the countertop closest to the stove. She turned the temperature dial on the stove to four hundred degrees and left it. After glancing around, a clueless curiosity giving her a cute, buttonish appearance, her gaze landed on the cutting board. She made a beeline for it, returned to the counter she'd commandeered, and carefully pulled her first potato out of the bag after using the knife to slit the plastic like the surgeon she was with a delicate, neat slice. She doused the potato with water from the sink, scrubbing it with her fingers as briskly as though she were scrubbing in, and then she turned to him as she picked up the fork she'd set aside.

"Okay," she said. "Do I stab it like… a fork-wielding murderer person? Or just… gently?"

He laughed, feeling so much better, so much better from just the act of watching her be her. "Just break the skin, Mere. Poke them a couple times each."

"Okay," she said. He smiled as she slipped the fork's tines down into the first potato all the way to the ends, but she made it a gentle motion that barely rocked her body as she did it. The ring flashed. She pulled the fork away, reaching an apex for another skilled stab.

He watched her, entranced for several moments before adding, "You might want to turn the oven on."

"Right," Meredith said. "I knew that."

She flipped the switch, and the kitchen started to heat up. Derek lost track of her when he went to pull out the skillet. They only had one, so he would do the steaks in shifts. He flipped the dial for the closest burner on the range top up to medium heat and freed the first steak from its package. He trimmed it and prepared it quickly. The meat landed on the skillet with a sizzle and a puff of steam. He stared at it, watching the bubbles of liquid forming at the bottom of the pan glisten in the indirect light. Red. Meat. Fleshy. Pink.

"Steaks cook in a pan?" she said, frowning with confusion. "I thought…" She'd finished situating the potatoes in the oven, and stood, gripping the handle of the oven door, partially turned to stare at him.

"Well, I prefer to grill them, but you don't have one of those," he replied. "Plus, it looks like it might start pouring, soon," he added as the light in the room darkened. Clouds coursed overhead and blotted out what remained of the sun.

"Oh," she said as she walked over to flip on the kitchen lights. He blinked as the harsh, new light speared his eyes. Bright. He swallowed, and she eyed the untouched broccoli boxes with a sort of daring she hadn't possessed before.

"We don't need to do that yet," he said as his eyes readjusted and the flaring brilliance settled into the naked bright he remembered from the grocery store. "All you do with that one is stick it in boiling water for a bit."

She nodded. He put his hand against the counter, staring at the marbled, black surface, letting it swirl before his eyes. Black. He breathed.

"Are you okay?" Meredith said as she slipped up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist as he flipped over the first steak. "I'm sorry I keep asking. I'm sorry. But… Are you, Derek? The last time I didn't ask right away, even though I should have, you were in surgery the next morning. And I'm… Are you okay? I know you want to drop… the thing. The pregnancy thing. And I'm dropping it. It's dropped right now. Okay? It's okay. I'm okay. We'll deal. But you're not… You're not okay, and…"

"I'm fine, Mere," he assured her. "We'll be fine. We'll have a perfectly acceptable dinner ready in no-time."

He turned to face her and brought his gaze up to meet hers, which was soft and gray, sweeping against the planes of his face as though it were new and strange to her, new and strange and… Breathtaking, handsome, gorgeous. The back of his throat twisted with ache, and he found himself in her arms, the scent of her wrapping around him.

"I know you're lying," she whispered against his neck as her lips found his skin. "But thank you for the dinner thing. And thank you for being you… I know you're… Upset. And not okay. But you're trying so hard to be Derek-y for me, and it… helps. It helps me. Thank you." Her fingers clutched the skin over his neck, released, and stroked down the length of his spine as she flattened her feet and rested against his chest. "Promise me, though, that this isn't because you're really sick? I'll leave you alone if you just promise me at least that."

"I promise," he said. "I'm just… I promise."

"Hello," a familiar, soft, honey-rich voiced said, and they broke apart.

"Mom," he said, looking up as his mother strode into the room. She wore a white sundress covered with small, blue flowers he couldn't identify and a small, leather purse. A large paper shopping bag crinkled at her hip.

He quickly started the second sirloin for emphasis. To Meredith. That he was fine. Just… Not really okay. The new sirloin sizzled and spat in the pan while the old one settled on the plate, glistening, steaming, wet.

Meredith's fingers tightened against his waist as she found him again and wrapped her arms around him. She leaned up against him, resting her cheek between his shoulder blades and sighed, relaxed, as though she'd found the most comfortable position in the world by which to watch him cook. He sighed as her warm body shifted into his space and soothed him.

"Hi, Ellen," she said. Her voice vibrated against his back, low and tired, but relaxed.

"What are you making?" Ellen asked as she tipped her delicate nose into the air, sampling. "It smells delicious." She set her shopping bag on the breakfast table, rumpling one of the placemats into a wave, rising off the table, and then walked over to peer at the cooking project currently winding smells and sounds into the air.

"Cheater broccoli, baked potatoes, and steaks," said Meredith. Her hand reached through the gap between his arm and side and gestured at the sizzling pan. "Apparently."

"It's not cheater broccoli, Mere," he said.

She released him and wandered to the other side of the center island. "Whatever," Meredith replied with a shrug, her eyes sparkling as she rolled them. The last hint of puffiness was gone from her face, and, if Derek hadn't known better, he never would have guessed they'd spent the afternoon in turmoil. "Ellen, do you want to join us for dinner?" Meredith added. "My stepmother is coming over."

"Oh," Ellen said, blinking. "Well, I wouldn't want to impose."

"It's not imposing," Derek explained. "It's sort of to celebrate."

Ellen raised an eyebrow. "Celebrate?"

"She passed," Derek said, unable to stop the smile from overcoming his features.

Ellen brightened. "Oh, Meredith!" She drew Meredith into a firm embrace. Derek stared as Meredith's arms slipped underneath his mother's shoulders, and Meredith not only took but returned the gesture with a wide, spreading, relaxed smile. "That's just wonderful," his mother said. "Wonderful. I'm so proud!"

"Me, too," Derek added softly.

"Well, his doctor's appointment went well, too," Meredith said, suddenly bashful. Her eyes met his over his mother's shoulders. Her eyelashes dipped, relaxed and sated as she took the sight of him in. He swallowed at the unadulterated look on her face.

I love you, she said, except she didn't say it.

I love you, and we'll be okay.

His mother turned to him, her gaze both scolding and happy, scolding for not mentioning earlier that her son was healing, but happy all the same because her son was healing. "Also wonderful," Ellen said as she came around to the other side of the island and peered at the second steak in the pan. She stared at it, and then her eyes trailed upward to its maker. "How are you, sweetheart?"

Derek smiled, tearing his eyes away from the endless, smooth glass he found when he stared at Meredith's irises. "I'm feeling pretty good," he said, directing a weak smile at his mother. Liar, a little voice twitched, but he stuffed it away as he dared a little return glance to Meredith. Her. He loved her. Little bits of badness broke and scattered every time her eyes met his.

"How long are you going to stay on the Dilantin?" Ellen asked.

"Probably a year, at least," he said. "Maybe longer than that."

"A year?" Ellen replied, breathless with surprise. "At least?"

"Seizures can occur years after a surgery, Mom," he explained. "And they're high risk for me because they would alter my style of life. I'll be on it for a while. Honestly, I don't know."

"But…" she said. "You'll get your license back and everything before then. Right?"

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Probably in about twelve weeks."

He stared at the steak in the pan, unwilling to meet the two sets of eyes staring him down. Twelve weeks, he'd need to be chauffeured. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, but at least there was an end in sight. An end.

"And…" Ellen prodded.

"Dr. Weller said he'd clear me for surgeries at six months," he said with a sigh. "No earlier."

A long, distant end. Dr. Weller, that morning, hadn't even given him a vague, falsely hopeful wait-and-see. He'd said flat out that they would see how he was doing at six months and not a day sooner. People returned to work after craniotomies in as few as three months, but that in no way meant they would be ready to dedicate themselves fully to their jobs again, particularly if they operated heavy machinery or performed precision surgeries with sharp knives. Derek found himself grateful that Dr. Weller had put his foot down, let him know under no uncertain terms that no matter how hard Derek decided to push himself to get back into fighting form, either through design, readiness, or frustration, nothing would be getting him back into the operating room any sooner. It made the tiredness Derek was still feeling at two weeks annoying, and it weathered his spirit, but the anxiety of overcoming it was absent beyond the general desire to not be sick anymore.

He sighed. A soft tap, tap, tap began overhead, spattering against the roof, and then the world overhead opened up, and dark, solid sheets of water curtained the windows. Thunder rumbled, and what little remained of the daylight waned into darkness.

"Derek…" Meredith began.

"I'm okay, Mere," he said, though she hadn't asked. He forced himself to look up at her and smiled warmly. "Did I tell you we're going fishing?"

She grinned. "I think I heard that in the midst of my freak out, somewhere."

"Yeah," he said. "Two weeks from now."

"I'm glad," Meredith replied, and he knew she was. They shared a grin.

A sharp doorbell rang in the interval of a minor third, went silent, vibrating through the air, and then rang again.

Meredith's eyes widened and her grin slipped away. "Oh, god," she moaned. Her breaths shortened into tight, shivery gasps of panic. "She's here. She's here and…"

"Relax, Mere," Derek replied. He started the next steak with a sizzle hiss and put his fork down. She wandered into his arms before he'd turned fully around. He rubbed her back, kissing the top of her head, trying to ignore the subtle ache the touch brought to him. "Why don't you go answer the door?" he suggested, giving her a gentle squeeze.

"The door?" she said.

"Yeah," he replied with a soft chuckle. "You know. To let her in."

"Oh," she said, nodding in a daze. She turned to leave, parting from his embrace. "Right."

"Sweetheart, is she okay?" Ellen said as the sound of forced, over cheerful greetings stumbled into the room over the rapid machinegun splats of newborn rain hitting the front deck. The hellos stuttered under the rumble of rainfall, accented by the slap and thump of a tight embrace, the rustle of a raincoat sliding against shirt and skin. No deep voice rumbled behind Susan's. The front storm door squeaked in protest as Meredith stepped backward into the foyer, and two bodies thumped into the living room to talk. Two bodies. Susan. Meredith. No Thatcher, he supposed. A small twist of anger coiled in his gut, and he supposed he was glad that there was no Thatcher tonight.

The cadence of the conversation in the other room began with the gentle swell and crush of nervous waves of small talk. Susan's calm, warming, "How are you?" crashed on the rock of Meredith's rapid, "Fine."

"How was your test?"

Crash.

"Fine."

"How is Derek?"

Crash.

"Oh, he's fine. He's fixing steaks for us, or something. Doing the cooking thing. I'm sure he'll come out in a little bit."

How, how, how, fine, fine, fine, accented with Meredith's nervous laughs from time to time like pirouettes in the midst of a skilled dance between avoidance and acceptance.

"I don't know," he said quietly, staring at the foyer until the lamps split into doubles, and the haze of browns and earth colors turned to an unfocused mush. "I don't know if she's okay," he answered honestly. He wasn't okay. Meredith was a master at emotional shutdowns, and he was too tired to push past and interpret what she wasn't showing. "She passed. And I… We forgot to… She forgot to… She's just a little stressed right now. And then there's… She hasn't really… This is only the second time she's had Susan over for dinner. The first time was…" He swallowed. "Well, it was a bit awkward."

He poked the steak in the pan, producing a harsh sizzle, and the fresh scent of cooking meat drifted against his nostrils. He breathed, leaning forward into the heat before he realized he was leaning, and then he pulled away. His face felt cool and wet, but drying as he panted in the relative chill of the surrounding air. Spices made his eyes water. Red. Meat. Red. The fork flashed silver underneath the overhead kitchen light. Silver. Clear. Warm. He clenched his fingers around the utensil, flipping the meat. He flinched at the loud, sputtering hiss.

"Sweetheart, are you okay?" his mother asked softly, startling him from his staring.

He laughed softly, though nothing felt very funny. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Because you just had surgery, Derek," Ellen replied, her voice deep and reasonable in a way that made him feel awful and not normal. "And you seem…"

Off? Upset? His fingers tightened. He felt flat. Drained. His eyes stung, and he blinked. It seemed as though the yoyo were dropping into the next dip.

"I'm fine," he said. "My appointment went fine."

"All right," Ellen replied. She stared at him for a long, long moment, as though she knew very well that he was lying. But she collected herself with a heavy sigh and turned to walk out to the living room. "I'll go see if anyone wants something to drink."

"Oh, Mom," he said. "You don't have to do that…"

"Nonsense," she said, and then she disappeared. The thrum of voices outside rose to three.

"Susan," he heard Meredith say. "This is Derek's mother, Ellen." Silence spread, and then the two older women began to chat, hesitant and soft at first as they poked and prodded, tried to figure out avenues of approach to the problem at hand. Hobbies? Likes? Dislikes?

He hunched over the stove, trying to ignore everything but the sizzle of the meat. Red. He got lost in it, lost and blurred, and he felt tired, and unhappy and… He sighed.

"They're talking," Meredith said as she walked back into the kitchen, her pace stilted and robotic, almost as if she were operating through a daze, sort of like he'd often found himself that day.

He blinked. "What?" he said as he stacked another finished steak on the plate.

"Your mom and my fake mom are talking," she said, her eyes widening with a sort of pleading stare. "They're… They're talking, Derek."

"And that's bad?" he asked, his own upset waning in the wake of hers.

"I don't know," she said. She shuffled next to him and stared into the skillet where the last steak lay, cooking, steaming. "I don't…" she began. She blinked. "I was getting good at the family thing, and now it's hard again."

He frowned, pulling her into his arms. "Everything is going to be fine, Mere," he assured her. "The steaks are almost ready. The potatoes are about to ding."

"What about the cheater broccoli?" she asked, sniffling.

He stared at the untouched boxes on the countertop, pursing his lips. The cardboard was dark with the wetness of thawed frost, and they glistened with excess water under the kitchen lights. "Um," he said. "Oops."

"Oops?" she snapped.

A blush crept over his face, and he swallowed. They shared a long stare. He walked over to the box and fingered it open. "Okay," he said. "It's okay. We'll just microwave it. That's faster. It's just…" He laughed. "Cheating."

"Cheating," she said.

He nodded.

A smile slipped across her lips. "I told you it was cheater broccoli." Her mirth slipped into seriousness again, and she clawed her fingers through her hair. "Okay. I'll go set the… Table. Yeah. I'll set… Yeah."

"Mere?" he called as she turned to leave.

She raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Everything will be fine," he said.

She grinned faintly. "I believe you."

Her belief didn't quite carry into reality.

Dinner proceeded in awkward silence, the clinks of silverware accenting the passing moments. Susan, having not seen him since he'd confided in her about the whole Chief thing, had smiled when he'd entered with the plate of steaks and said hello softly as he'd set it on the table, but her eyes had lingered warmly on his frame in that grinning, sympathetic way that family members often used to hide their need to stare and worry over the sick and the dying. He'd seen it often enough to pinpoint it down to the most subtle facial tick, and he wondered just how awful he looked for her to stare at him that way. She hadn't asked how he was feeling, which suggested he looked like he was somewhere on a lower rung in the ladder of dead to fine. She'd briefly complimented the food, she and his mother had danced around various small topics, and then the choking silence had fallen down around them.

Meredith sat across from him. Having picked apart her steak like a bird pecking at a piece of bread, she proceeded to mash her potato with the back of her fork, and didn't offer up anything, not a nervous babble, nothing. Her engagement ring flickered in the dim light as she shifted her fork and smashed, smashed, smashed the contents of her plate with it. He wondered if she was too afraid she'd blurt out maybe-baby. Or something worse. He sighed, trying to worm his way past the tiredness clogging everything up to come up with something, anything to talk about, except in the absence of something to do, something to fix, like dinner, all he could think was that everything was not fine. Not fine at all. And he was exhausted.

"So," Susan said, her voice a mix of hesitant, hopeful, and desperate. She set her fork down with a clink against the side of her plate and looked pointedly at Meredith's lithely working fingers. "Have you thought about the wedding at all?"

"What?" Meredith said, looking up from her potato massacre with a startled expression. "I… What?"

Derek leaned forward against his elbows and closed his eyes. Talking about that was probably worse than silence. Tension pressed a soft, vocalized breath out of his chest before he could stop it. Not this. Not now.

"The wedding," Susan said. "Are you doing any planning yet?"

Yeah right, he thought bitterly.

"I'm…" Meredith stammered.

"We're thinking May," Derek said. "But that's about as far as we've gotten."

Susan frowned, glancing back and forth between him and Meredith. His mother looked at all three of them in rapid succession, her casually neutral face slipping into puzzlement. She looked at Derek sharply, the tick of her deep blue eyes clearly stating she wanted to know why asking about the wedding would so suddenly be a cause for concern. He glared sharply back at her. Don't go there, he thought. Not now. Please, not now. Not when she's already freaked. The curiosity on his mother's face shifted into concern.

"I'm sorry," Susan said, piercing the silence. "Should I not have brought it up?"

"No, no," Derek tried to assure her as Meredith's eyes widened, and she shifted in her seat. "It's just we haven't really had time to… Things came up."

For a moment, he thought she was going to run. Meredith. Run. They were dealing with too much. Too much for her. Wedding was not high on her list at the moment. The back of his throat tightened, his eyes stung, and he fought the urge to surrender to heartbreak as he read the shifting tide of emotions flitting across her face. Her thin fingers clenched her fork.

Susan's face softened, oblivious to Meredith's turmoil next to her. To Derek, it radiated in waves from her tiny body, but to Susan, it very possibly didn't even register as a facial tick. "I'm sorry," Susan said. "Of course, it's important for you to get back on your feet first."

Derek glanced at Meredith. She wouldn't meet his eyes. She wouldn't… Not okay. Things were not okay. "Yeah," he admitted quickly, "I haven't really been doing so well."

Ellen stared sharply at him as Susan's eyes welled up with pity he didn't want, sympathy he didn't need. He felt a blush creeping across his skin, but…

"Should I wear a white dress?" Meredith blurted.

Silence. Derek blinked, reeling. He'd been ready. To tell them how he couldn't concentrate, how he couldn't stand how bright things were, how loud. How he felt like he wanted to keel over and sleep right that moment, how he needed naps like a five-year-old, how he couldn't read and couldn't lift and couldn't drive. Couldn't, couldn't, couldn't. He'd been ready to keep them away from Meredith, and…

"What, dear?" Ellen said.

"I've been trying to decide if I should wear a white dress," she said. She glanced at him, her lips curling in a tiny, nervous, watery smile, and he sat there, dumbfounded, wondering if he'd read her wrong. "I know Derek wants me to. But it's… I'm sure as hell not virginal. Or religious. Or anything, really. And it's…" Her words halted, and she stared at them staring at her, him, his mother, Susan, her gaze ticking to each point in the cycle over and over like a bird cornered in a nest of cobras. Her skin flushed. "Oh. I'm sorry. I'm… Having a bad day, and I… I'm ruining this, aren't I?"

"Mere…" Derek whispered.

"You all have done this before…" she continued as if he hadn't spoken, turning to his mother. "Would Connecticut be okay? Your gazebo… in May. It was just… I thought… But then we wouldn't have it in a church. Because it would be in your yard. And I don't know whether that would be okay. I mean, it would be okay to me. But you might be religious. Are you religious? I'm not religious, and I…"

"Meredith," Derek said.

"What, Derek!" she hissed, torn from her rant. Silence. She stared at him expectantly. Her lips were full and slightly parted as she breathed.

He met her eyes, and in that moment, he felt as though he'd been tied to the tracks, and the train of his life barreled toward him, future at the caboose, happily attached and chugging along for the ride. He had misread her. Had he? She… Smiled. She smiled at him, hesitant. Is this okay? her eyes said. Is this okay to talk about, now? I love you, and I want you.

"I'm kind of…" he stuttered, too off-kilter to do much else. "I mean… Agnostic. I wouldn't mind… No church is…"

"But what are you supposed to be?" she asked. "I mean, obviously not Catholic. Unless you're like… excommunicated. Oh, god," she continued, her voice rising shrilly in pitch as her expression clouded with twisting guilt, and what little peace and contentment she'd found in their exchange of stares waned into nothing. "Are you excommunicated? Did I…"

"I'm not anything, Mere," he assured her. "The only time I've been in a church since Dad died was for my wedding with Addison, and only then because she wanted it there."

"Oh," she said. Tension seeped out of her frame. "I… Oh. Well, I… I'm… But Christmas?"

"I'm Episcopalian, dear," Ellen explained. "Most of the family is. But I never forced it on anyone. It seemed wrong to drag everyone to church if they didn't want to go. Not after David died. I…"

"Oh. I'm sorry, Ellen," Meredith said. She sighed, blowing a puff of loose bangs and stray strands of hair flying. She picked up her fork again and worked at her potato. "I'm… I'm not doing this so well."

Ellen smiled. "Nonsense," she said. "I was hardly as articulate as you when David and I were planning. My gazebo would be lovely, Meredith. I'd be happy to host the wedding. The house is very empty without the family there. It would be… It would be nice to have it filled again for something other than a reunion."

"Connecticut in May would be perfect," Susan agreed.

Ellen raised an eyebrow. "Have you been there?"

"My sister lives in Hartford," Susan replied.

"Really?" Ellen answered, her voice dripping with delight. "One of David's sisters lives in Hartford. I visit her from time to time."

Derek slumped in his seat as the conversation moved to safer, neutral topics and dissolved into a thrum around his ears. He lost track of the meaning, lost track of how the syllables connected to form words. For a moment, he couldn't think straight, couldn't think at all. And then everything started to shutdown as the adrenaline brought by perceived danger slipped out of his system. He leaned forward on his elbows, staring at his plate.

He'd barely touched his food. Four bites were missing from his steak. He hadn't even buttered his potato. The cheddar sauce from the broccoli had slowly seeped across his plate, blending into the edges of the steak and potato like an encroaching weed of some sort. His fork sat by his elbow, but he couldn't bring himself to pick it up. The smell of the meat hit his nose, but it did nothing for him. The sight of it turned his stomach.

He shuddered with receding… everything. Meredith. Meredith had plans. Had been planning. Was planning. Their wedding. She was still planning. Still thinking about it, despite the mountain of uncertainty.

Planning their future.

Future.

He licked his lips, leaning into his palms, and he let his eyes slide shut, forcing the nauseating site of food away. Susan and his mother talked, their soft voices rising and falling in the vague cadence of conversation. _It's all right, Der_, he could hear his mother saying in the same soothing, shushing tone. _It's all right. Your fever is coming down. Just rest, sweetheart._ He felt Meredith's eyes on him, but he couldn't lift his head. He just needed a minute. Just a…

"Derek," Meredith whispered. Her hand crawled up his back, and he shifted, groaning. Something creaked. Creaked?

"Mmm?"

"Derek, wake up," she said quietly. "You have to… You can't sleep here all night."

"Mmm…"

"Come on," she commanded, and the serious tone in her voice broke through his stupor.

He blinked, his eyelids sliding over his eyes in a sluggish way that brought the world back to him in a series of steps. Blurry. Muzzy. Vague. Swirly. There. He sucked in a half-sleeping breath that filled his lungs with old air. The dark grain of wood sprawled out before him, clear of dishes and people. Inky blackness hovered outside the windowpanes beyond the table. Rain thumped against the rooftop of the house and splotched the windows with rivulets of water, but the precipitation came in fat, slow, leisurely types of raindrops that didn't overwhelm the glass with streams. "Where did…" he spluttered as he pushed his hands against the table and rose into a slouch as his heart skipped into a thumping, panicked rhythm. The placemat came up with his cheek, only to succumb to gravity. He rubbed his cheek, feeling the depressions left behind by the bumps in the fabric.

"Susan went home," Meredith said, her voice soft. "Your mother went to bed."

He shoved back against the chair and stood, only to sway. "What?" he said.

"It's been hours, Derek," she said. Her arms slipped around his waist. "Shhh. It's okay."

"Fell asleep," he muttered. Burning embarrassment spread like fire across his skin. He'd fallen asleep. At the table. At the dinner table. In the middle of eating. With guests. And the worst of it was his eyelids still felt like heavy glue. His back ached from the awful position. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep.

"You did," she said. "I love you. Thank you for fixing dinner."

He swallowed thickly, taking a step away from the table. "Mmm," he managed. She moved with him slowly, breathing deep and easy in the space next to him, but she didn't say a word as they stumbled up the steps, interlocked.

He was vaguely aware of collapsing into bed. The pain in his muscles lessened as he laid himself out flat. The mattress seemed to reach up around his torso and tug him down. He sucked down a breath and just… Existed. Tired.

Meredith's lithe fingers found his shoelaces. He lay passively as she pulled off his shoes one after the other, and then his pants in a gesture that, from buttons one through five, found itself completely absent of sex. The sheets flew up like a parachute, caught the air, and settled over him, flattening the soft hairs along his arms and his calves. Her warm body found the crook of his shoulder, and she settled against him, petting his chest with sliding strokes of her index finger. The slide of her fingertip against his shirt rustled, intermingling with the thumps of the rain, and he inhaled a long, sleepy breath that bathed his throat with lavender.

"Feels good," he mumbled.

He sensed her watching him, and he let his lips curl in a vague smile, but he was content. Content to just listen to the rain, hover in sleep and darkness, and let her stare. The curve of her hip rose into his palm. Her breasts mashed against his abdomen. She was close and hot and breathing, and behind his eyelids, he imagined her from the sprawl of her silky hair to the twisty scar that marked her appendectomy to the smallest freckle on the back of her knee. He let the image hover there as he drifted in the quiet, tired bliss.

"Susan and Thatcher eloped," she whispered.

"Mmm?" he mumbled. His head ticked to the left at the sound of her voice. He brought his gaze to bear on her and blinked, blinked, blinked to establish a new front line against the sleep that threatened.

"It just sort of popped out in the conversation," she said. "I'm… I guess I'm kind of surprised."

He breathed deeply. "Why surprised?"

"Just… they seem so perfect," she said. "And so different from what my mother and Thatcher had. I guess I just expected… Something big and monstrous and church-y with mutant flowers and organists and stuff."

"Oh," he said. He ran his arm along the outside of her bicep, feeling the soft hairs on her skin give way to his fingertips. She shifted, her knee caressing his thigh. "Did you want to elope, Mere?"

"No," she said.

"No?"

"I like… I like the family thing," she said. "I think… I close my eyes, and I think about a wedding, and I see Stewart throwing paper airplanes from the middle row. And Kathy and Sarah in bridesmaids' dresses."

He let his eyes close on that bright picture, colorful, but for once that day, no amount of color seemed to be too much for him to bear. A relaxed, buzzing feeling thrummed through his bones. She wanted his sisters to be bridesmaids. She wanted…

"And I want to see you dance with your mother at the reception," she continued. "And I… I kind of… Cristina would hate me for making her my maid of honor, but I think Izzie… Maybe. And… I don't know. I just… I'm glad you took me to Connecticut, Derek. Thank you. I…"

Her body shuddered against his. She sniffed and snuggled closer.

"Hey," he said. "It's okay, Mere. It's okay to be freaked out."

He hadn't thought she could get any closer, but she managed. Her tiny body rested against him, a solid weight that told him he lived and he ached, but it was the sort of ache that affirmed instead of cut. Heat radiated from her skin and into him, and he breathed softly as she re-settled in a cloud of lavender and sighs. A small squeak fell out of the back of her throat, just a little cracking bit of noise, and in that moment, he felt empowered in a way he hadn't felt in weeks.

He kept her safe.

"I'm sorry I stressed you out," she whispered, the words hot against his breastbone. Her fingers worried at his shirt.

He forced his eyes open and turned to her, rubbing his hand along the curve of her hip. "You didn't stress me out, Mere."

"You fell asleep, Derek," she said. "I freaked you out with the pathetic crying, made you have sex with me, sprung a maybe-baby on you, made you fix emergency dinner, babbled like a freak about wedding dresses, and then you fell asleep at the dinner table as soon as there was a lull."

He relaxed into the pillow. "Sex is a stress reliever," he insisted. "And you didn't make me do anything, Mere."

"But the rest…"

He sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. For not being emotionally stable enough to support you unconditionally. For falling asleep. For being weak. For ruining everything.

A soft puff of air fell from her lips followed by a stuttered, quiet syllable of noise, as if, at first, she had no idea what to say. "I wasn't looking for an apology. I'm not even sure what… Never mind. But…" she said. "Just…"

"What?"

"You're here," she said. "All the time. Saying things. And I believe you."

"Mere…"

"I know you wanted to drop it, Derek. But I…"

His stomach clenched at her apologetic, sad tone, and he swallowed, forcing himself all the way awake. He rolled onto his side, and she re-settled against him, her nose millimeters away from his. Her eyes glittered in the darkness. The rain splattering the windows thickened into sheets as the patter became a momentary roar. Or was the roar from something else?

"What is it?" he said. Everything tightened, and the sleep, the dozing, the daze, bled away in a crush of anxious panic. She was going to tell him no. He forced himself to keep the lines of his face neutral, even as his eyes started to water, and his throat started to close up.

She gave him a watery smile as he met her eyes. "I wanted you to know," she said. "I don't want to be pregnant. I don't. Not now. But if I am… It's inopportune, I'm scared out of my mind, and I'm not freaking ready. But… Sometimes you need to get shoved in the water, right? I couldn't… I can't… If I'm pregnant, I'm not getting rid of it, Derek. I just couldn't. I'll try to swim this time. I swear. And you don't get to feel guilty about this."

"Mere, I…" he choked. "I don't… What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing," she said, smiling. "I'm already convinced."

"Mere…"

She raced her palm along his arm from wrist to shoulder and gripped him when she arrived at his collarbone. "No, Derek," she said. "Stop talking to me like you know what I'm thinking. I don't even know what I'm thinking. I don't know what I want right now. I don't know if I would be a good mom. I don't know anything except that we love each other. You have more than enough money to support a kid, and we love each other. And you? You'd be an awesome dad, and you really want this. That's a way better start than most kids get. Right? And me? I mean… You'd be there. With me. And I…"

"I'd be there, Mere," he whispered.

Her body ticked with a rolling shrug. "Then we'll be okay," she said, and as if to accent her decision, the pounding rain receded to a drizzle. Slats of light filtering in through the blinds from the streetlights outside barred her skin into sections of milky paleness and dark.

"It's not that simple," he protested.

"It is that simple, Derek," she snapped. "It's very freaking simple. I know a kid isn't like a watch to give you on your birthday. It's a baby, Derek. Something we'll have made together. Not on purpose, this time, but we've been talking about it, and I told you I'd think about it, that I wasn't entirely against the idea, and I meant it. If, in a split second, I had to say yes right now or no forever, I know I'd say yes. Because I want them someday. With you, I want them someday. With you. And I can't really see getting rid of something we made just because right this second, it's inconvenient. And you'd be there. With me. You'd be there with me, and I… I think I'm okay with that. Well, terrified. But okay. Okay?"

He blinked. "You. You want them?"

"Someday, Derek. If this happens, it happens, and I'll deal with it, but if it doesn't, I still want them. I'd just like to wait a few years. I don't want to be Ellis and let my career dictate my life, but I would like to at least get started on making a name for myself first."

"You want them."

Her head shifted as she nodded. He reached up with his palm and splayed it against her cheek, leaning against her, forehead to forehead, and shuddered. Her skin felt hot against his own. Her soft breaths laved his face. Somewhere between one breath and the next, she kissed him, slow and deep, and he rolled onto his back, bringing her up overtop of him. She lay flat against his torso, her legs falling against his hips and thighs and lower. He palmed her cheeks and breathed her in.

"You want them," he said again. He didn't know why he was saying it. It still didn't sound right. Didn't sound real.

He shuddered again. He sucked in a breath, except it wasn't a breath. It was an ugly, racking, desperate sob. Her body jerked with him, and her eyes widened, but she managed to smile and nod.

"With you, yeah."

"You want this one?"

"No, but yes," she answered emphatically.

She leaned down against him and slipped the cap away from him. Her fingertips teased the skin that ran in an arc away from his temples. He stared at her, and then he couldn't stare at her, because the world was a mess.

He rolled onto his side, but she managed to follow the movement and landed gracefully next to him. His whole body shook, and he felt sick with relief and other good things. But still sick. He drew his hands up to his face, buried himself in the folds and creases of his palms, and shook.

"Derek, are you okay?" she whispered.

"No," he replied. "But yes."


	52. Chapter 50

**Author's Notes: Well, here it is. The big 5-0! Thank you so much for being patient with me on this one. Life has been a little crazy lately. **

* * *

The bathroom in Derek's trailer was woefully small. Meredith wilted over her knees, sitting on the fuzzy blue toilet cover, the little stick clutched in her hands between her ankles, and her head nearly brushed the far wall. Twelve inches of clearance. Maybe. Bad for people who were freaking out and needed to curl up on bathroom floors. That was one thing she would miss. A bathroom needed a good floor and a big tub. Not that she was freaking out.

She scrunched up her toes, staring at the indicator window intently, as though that would make the results happen faster. The soft, shaggy threads of the blue floor mat caught in the grip of her toes. She shuffled her feet, watching as she plowed through the weave, feeling the yarn grow harsh against her skin as it scraped instead of lightly caressed. Her focus traded between the rug and the indicator, back and forth, back and forth. The stick blurred in and out.

Three minutes. The line would show up in three minutes. The line. Because two lines was bad. Bad, bad, bad. She inhaled softly.

Derek thumped past the door. The floor underneath her feet vibrated through the carpet, and she clutched the test so hard it began to hurt. This was the last one. Four weeks of negatives. She'd been taking them every other day as soon as she'd hit the fourteen-day point past unprotected sex act number one. Shower sex.

This was the last one. Four weeks of negatives was enough, she'd decided. Conception at two to three days after sex, detection as early as eight days after conception… Really, this was overkill. But Derek humored her. And it wasn't like she hadn't bought enough tests to do this. It wasn't like--

He knocked softly, but the noise might as well have been a cannon. She pitched forward, startled, and reached out to catch herself against the wall, only to end up scrabbling against the fluffy blue hand towel and the shiny metal rack. She felt a little like a cornered sardine in a can. She panted, wincing as the thump of her hand plowing forward onto the wall through the towel reverberated in the small space. And she clutched.

Clutched.

Two minutes.

"Mere, I put your clothing boxes by the closet for you to sort," Derek murmured. His voice caught, hesitant, unconfident, and strangely not like Derek at all. "Your other stuff is on the table. I'm finished."

"Okay," she replied. "I'll be out in a sec."

For a moment, silence twisted the space between them into a tense, writhing mess, and she could feel him standing there, his head pressed against the door, silent, breathing. "Are you okay, Mere?" he asked.

"Sure," she insisted. "Sure, I'm okay."

Another long silence filled the air. "Okay," he replied, his voice low and lost and tired. His footsteps receded. She exhaled in a rush that ached deep into her straining diaphragm and closed her eyes. A hot splotch of sunlight landed on her from the tiny strip window at the top of the wall. She didn't know what had possessed her to do this now. To take the last one now.

Derek knew she was waiting for the results of one last test to proclaim herself not pregnant, and he was being really great about it, despite the fact that she realized every new test she took sparked a little glimmer of hope in his eyes that she subsequently crushed. Negative. Negative, negative, negative. No matter how many she took and how much less likely it became that there would be a positive, he'd get that little glimmer, and then he'd lose it. He'd shrug it off with a smile, a smile that he did mean, a smile that said he was happy for her and for them and with their future, but she knew he wasn't exactly fine with it, no matter how much he said he didn't want her to be pregnant.

He knew there was one more to go. He just didn't know she'd chosen to take said last test while he was busy lugging in all her crap from the car. She wasn't really sure why she'd done it, either. But she'd carried in her toiletry bag and just… Bam. She'd had to pee and…

They were moving into the trailer. Moving in. Not permanently, yet. They were planning to spend nights and days when she was off work there. Derek would stay at her mother's house the rest of the time. Derek couldn't drive, and him being out in the middle of nowhere at the trailer alone was not really conducive to her having peace of mind when she was at work. Not that she'd said anything about it. Mother hen. Bad. Bad, and she knew he hated it. No, he'd actually been the one to suggest the back-and-forth schedule, though he'd disguised it as letting her decide if she would really like to live out there before they fully committed. She'd let him think she didn't realize he was trying to save her some worry, all the while dripping with relief that he hadn't insisted or argued with her that he'd be fine alone.

The point was that they were moving into the trailer. It felt like a new chapter or something. A new… something. And she desperately wanted to close out the old one.

She wasn't an intern anymore. She was happily, publicly engaged. She had a borrowed-mom who called her on the phone and discussed plans with her. Wedding plans. She had a fake-mom who made dinner dates with her and didn't pressure her to get to know Thatcher, though she was thinking about trying harder on that front. And Derek…

Derek had gotten better in leaps.

He only had to take one nap a day instead of two or three. He had a thick carpet of hair that she loved to run her hands through. Despite it being short, it seemed to make him feel a lot better that he didn't have to wear the cap to hide the scar. He rarely had any headaches, though, every once in a while, he'd get an awful one that laid him up in bed for a while. But those were seldom.

He lifted things, like heavy boxes crammed full of her junk. And her. He made a point of lifting her a lot. In the shower, up the steps, and in a casual, spinny way that made her laugh sometimes when they were out on walks. He lifted things, and his movement had grown fluid and sure again. His strides had stretched over time, from walk to walk to walk, until what had been hesitant and stilted, looking more like a strain than healthy exercise, returned to the smooth, athletic grace she hadn't realized she'd been missing.

She caught him reading books more and more often. He had to do it in short spurts, but he could read, his focus was improving, and it reflected in his whole demeanor. His temper had evened out, and his tendency toward rapid mood swings seemed to have died with his ever-expanding freedom and improved well being, which was a serious relief to her. She'd been praying he hadn't developed some sort of mood disorder, and his slow return to equilibrium seemed like a big indication that his problems had been related to the situation, and not to screwed up chemical production.

His eyes were the best things, though. The thirst and thrill for life his gaze had always seemed to reflect prior to the ferry accident had returned in full, and she often found herself staring at him, grinning ear to ear until he'd turn to find himself the object of her scrutiny, quirk a grin back at her, and ask, "What?" in that low, playful, dirty tone he reserved for sex and other naughty things.

She blinked herself back into the tiny bathroom. She'd been daydreaming, caught in the comforting lilt of his sexy laughter and the ghosts of his fathomless stare. Something tight in her chest loosened, and she leaned back against the seat with a sigh.

She had it bad, all right.

Her gaze slipped down onto the pregnancy test in her hand, but the fact that it was one stripe for negative instead of two stripes for pregnant barely even registered at that point. Because everything was great, and she was already thrilled. The only extra thing that the test brought her was relief. She and Derek would have time to be just Derek and Meredith for at least a little while.

She really did have it bad. Really, really, really.

She grinned and stood on wobbly legs, grasped the door latch, and shifted out into the hallway.

"Derek, I—" she began, breathless, pregnancy test in hand, only to halt. "Oh."

It was as though he had stood at the foot of the bed, decided he was tired, and fallen forward into sleep before his body had even hit the mattress. The only detail that suggested he had planned this particular slumber was the placement of his shoes, which were shoved in the corner of the room by a stack of her boxes, far enough away from his feet to suggest they hadn't simply fallen there.

He lay flat on top of the bedspread, his head turned to the side. His fingers curled, and his palms faced the ceiling by his hips. A v-shaped sweat stain, starting at his shoulders and tapering off at the small of his back where the slope of his muscles and spine became a valley, darkened his indigo shirt into a dusky, post-twilight color. His lips were slightly parted, and the deep, even sounds of his breaths fell against the bedspread, ruffling the hollow bulge in the fabric by his mouth with each exhalation. Rivulets of sweat dotted his brow by his hairline, damp and prominent, and the more than half-inch of hair that time had managed to return to him had gathered into a darkened, wet forest of short spikes. His face, mostly slack with the innocence of sleep, twitched and ticked at the corners of his lips. His eyelids fluttered.

He dreamed.

She glanced around. Four big boxes sat stacked on the dining table. Big, heavy boxes that he'd lugged inside for her. No wonder he'd collapsed. She'd packed a lot. She'd been a packrat. Well, not really a packrat. She was pretty sure she wouldn't ever be moving back to the house. A house, maybe. On a certain beautiful lake. But not her mother's house. And, once she'd started trying to put her life into boxes? Her life had seemed a whole. Lot. Bigger. They were going to be making a lot of use of Derek's luggage compartments, she was fairly sure.

He'd teased her. _We're only sleeping at the trailer every other night at most. Do you really need to bring your entire sock collection?_

_Yes. My feet. They get cold._

_I can warm your feet._

_You can, _she'd replied with a grin.

Then he'd peered inside box number two and pulled out picture frame after picture frame. _Knickknacks? Meredith, I didn't even know you owned knickknacks._

_Maybe it's a new thing_, she'd said._ It could be. I want it to be._

He'd slipped off the protective towel and flipped over the first silver frame to find himself staring back through smudged glass. She'd gotten the New York pictures printed. Not the naughty ones. The Times Square ones. And…

_Oh,_ he'd said softly. He'd turned and pulled her into an embrace. _Well, I guess we can find a spot for them._

Her phone shrieked, tearing her from daydream number two, and she nearly dropped the test as she squeaked and tripped backward in surprise. She thumped into the wall. Derek moved and made a groaning noise, but he didn't rise from his slumber. Instead, his hands found his pillow, and he burrowed underneath.

The second ring spurred her into action. For a moment, she stood by her purse on the sofa, staring at the pregnancy test. She didn't want to put it down, but… After a few comical, jerky motions, she managed to free her phone from her huge tote. She stared at Derek, but aside from a snuffling breath that shuddered through his whole torso, he didn't move again. She bit her lip, hoping he hadn't worn himself out too badly doing the moving thing. That was another thing that had slowly corrected itself. He usually slept lightly, to the point that he'd had to resume using his earplugs to stay in the same bed with her overnight without going insane.

She retreated outside onto the deck beside his trailer. The door slammed behind her, and she winced, waiting for Derek to thump up like a sleepy, lumbering beast and ask about the racket, but the innards of the trailer remained still and silent. She imagined him groaning again, burrowing under another pillow, and receding further into slumber.

She flipped the phone open before ring number three was more than a chirp. "What?" she hissed into the receiver.

"Am I interrupting sex?" Cristina replied.

"What?" Meredith said, collapsing onto one of Derek's deck chairs. It was covered in pollen dust and dirt after months of neglect. The armrests felt gritty against her elbows. "No, you're not interrupting sex…"

Wind spread fingers through the grass in front of the deck, and the trees around the clearing swayed. The soft rustle of leaves, a cadre of chirping birds, and the noise of surrounding wildlife wrapped around her. In the shade of the trailer, the air was cool and comfortable and breezy, but the atmosphere was clear, and the sky was cloudless that day. Out by the car and away from shelter, her skin had felt like it was baking when she'd braved the sunshine to drag inside the duffel bag she'd filled with her bathroom things.

"Wow," Cristina said. "Seriously? No sex?"

"No sex, Cristina."

The sound of a harsh breath buffeted Meredith's ear, and she winced. "You moved into McDreamy's trailer of lust in the middle of nowhere, and you're not having sex?" Cristina asked. "Meredith, the thing has got to have, what? Like fourteen square feet? And I bet half of it is bed."

Meredith frowned. If it was that small, why did she feel like she could breathe again? Because it wasn't small. The trailer was small. But the situation? The whole thing?

Big.

She glanced to the left. The clearing wrapped around the rear of the trailer, but there were no trees to the left. The grass dipped away, and she could see the deep blue of the lake crowning the horizon. A large grayish bird with a long neck swooped down over the water and disappeared into the distant reeds. She leaned back against the dirty chair with a sigh. Her grip around the negative pregnancy test loosened, and it fell out of her hand to rest on her thigh, almost forgotten.

"Why does everyone think all Derek and I do is have sex?" Meredith said. "Seriously. We do stuff."

"Like what?"

"Like read," Meredith said. "And talk. And walk. And… surgery. There's always surgery. Or, well, there will be. Eventually. And stuff."

"That's a really sad list, Meredith," said Cristina. "You sound like candidates for a retirement community."

"And stuff!" Meredith insisted. "Other stuff. We'll do other stuff once we, you know… figure out what that stuff is."

She had a feeling that, when left to his own devices in his own element, Derek would probably find a bunch of nature-y hobbies for them to share. He wasn't a clubber, and he didn't like a lot of the loud attractions Seattle proper had to offer. It was as if leaving Manhattan had flipped off some sort of city love switch. She'd never realized it before, but she wondered if perhaps him moving into her mother's house had been what'd truly stunted his starting over initiative. They rarely had more than a day off at a time that intersected, which meant if they weren't already out in the middle of it, they probably weren't going to go out and do anything, at least not anything fun. Now, they were. They were out in the middle of it. It. Nowhere.

Which was essentially a big old blaring neon sign thing that said… Opportunity.

"I'm hobbyless," Meredith continued. "I have no hobbies to share because I was a jobless, partying, dark-and-twisty freak, and then I was an intern with no time. But I'm sure I'll find some, soon. Hobbies. I really do sort of like the whole nature thing. It's… Nature-y. And quiet. Quiet is nice." She looked out at the lake. "Hey, maybe there's boats. I like boats."

"Boats," Cristina said, her voice flat with disbelief.

"We're surgeons," Meredith said. "I was an intern. We don't have time for hobbies or whatever. Or we didn't. Now, we probably do, seeing as how the getting there part of the nature-y equation thing is gone. And I'm working on the fishing thing. I might be adding fishing to the list. Fishing could be a new couple-y activity. And boats. What's it called with the little pointy boats? Kayaking? Or row boating. That's less sporty, but still very boatish."

She sighed, trying to picture her and Derek in a boat on his lake at sunset or something. It fit. It really sort of fit.

The whole area was beautiful and earthy and... Very Derek. Well, very Derek 2.0. Or would that be the return of Derek 1.0? Whatever. The point was, she was a little in love with it, a lot in love with him, and…

And now she lived there. A little and a lot in love. And it was nice.

"Right," Cristina said with a snort.

She'd enjoyed watching Derek pause when he'd gotten out of the car. He'd leaned against the side of the door, closed his eyes, and just inhaled. Inhaled the wet scent of grass and water and earth. And then he'd smiled as though he were returning to a long lost friend.

Hello, life. Nice to see you again.

He'd tossed his keys in an arc over the roof of the car to her and smiled like a little kid opening the biggest Christmas present under the tree as she'd caught them with a surprised clap. _I'll get the first box. Will you prop open the door?_

And what exactly did Cristina know about that? She and Burke cut hearts and slept together. Really, it was a pot kettle situation.

"Yeah, well, what do you and Burke do together that's so freaking noteworthy?" Meredith snapped. "And why is it that you have to do something with somebody else just to enjoy their company? I mean, really. What the hell do we even do together, Cristina? We jog. Sometimes."

"We don't jog. I don't jog."

"Well, there was that one time."

"And it was awful," Cristina said.

"Okay, well, yeah, but we jogged that one time!"

"No," Cristina said. "We drink."

"True," Meredith agreed. "We do drink. Well, used to drink. I'm not really sure I have a lot of reasons to be drinking anymore. But—"

"Now that we've established how sadly little we actually have in common… I need a drink, Meredith."

"What?" Meredith said. "What for?"

"Mama," Cristina replied, her voice low and flat.

"Mama?"

"She glares at me all the time," Cristina said. "You'd think I had the audacity to shoot her puppy or something."

Ellen had called Meredith a week before, and she'd had been happy to pick up the phone. Happy. _Meredith, dear, how are you and Derek doing?_

_Oh, we're fine. Dr. Weller finally cleared him to lift things and do housework, and now my whole house is clean, my lawn is mowed, my dishes are always done, and my laundry... That man can do laundry. It smells all mountain-y fresh just like the commercial. Oh, and my front door isn't jammed anymore. Which is neat, really. I didn't think he'd be very big on the Mr. Fixit stuff after what you told me about his cooking skills. But he is._

Ellen had chuckled. _He sounds miserable_.

_Oh, he totally is. I think he's bored to tears. I just wish there was something I could… _Her voice had trailed away as the idea had struck her like a cartoon piano over a building, squashing her on the pavement below. She'd been really, really dumb. Really dumb. Derek had been bored. There hadn't been a lot he could do when he was chained to the house the way he had been. Except… There'd been no need for him to be chained to the house. He could have been… Trailer. Stupid. Dumb. Really dumb. She'd sighed, and the final word had cracked out from her vocal cords, barely escaping. _Do. _

Ellen had laughed softly. _Well, I'd offer suggestions, but it sounds like you just had a flash of inspiration on your own. _

_I think I might have, Ellen. Thanks._

_Listen, dear, I just wanted to let you know I'm sending you a list of civil celebrants and nondenominational ministers in the area. I wasn't sure which you'd prefer…_

Meredith blinked. "Your mother?"

"No, Burke's mother," Cristina said. "Mama Burke. Burke's Mama. Meredith, I thought mama's boys were supposed to be sniveling little freaks who cry all the time. Burke is not a sniveling little freak, but he's the worst mama's boy I've ever met."

"Um…" Meredith stuttered.

"I just want to spend my five minutes before the justice of the peace in peace. No Mama."

"Five minutes?" Meredith asked weakly.

If there was ever a time when Meredith found herself unable to relate with her person, it was then. Right then. With the bad Mama thing. And five minutes. How did someone get married in five minutes? It was marriage. It was… Big. Over the past four weeks, Meredith had come to the conclusion that, while she wasn't sure if she wanted to do the whole virginal white dress thing with a Swiss bell choir, twenty layers of cake, an organ fanfare, and doves, she was pretty sure she wanted to plan. And make it perfect.

She wanted to take her time.

_I can do slow. I can do incredibly slow._

She shivered at the fleeting ghost of Derek's lips on the crook of her neck and lower, and then she shook the picture away. Naughty. Bad thoughts.

"Maybe ten," Cristina continued, oblivious to Meredith's inner tangent. "Ten with no Mama telling me I have to wear a hideous necklace that looks like it fell off a chandelier. And I like my eyebrows, Meredith. I like them. They're staying on my face. If she comes at me with tweezers again, I'll scream. I'll… No. I'll commit matricide. Mama matricide. Matricide, Meredith. I'm in Hell. I hate Mama. Help me. I need liquor."

"Oh…" Meredith replied, breathless. "Okay. Now?"

"Yes, now," Cristina said. "Meet you at Joe's?"

Meredith stood from the chair and reached behind herself to brush off the pollen and crap that'd stuck to her knit pants, only to realize the pregnancy test was sliding to the ground. She made a grab for it. The phone tumbled to the deck, but she rescued the test. She bent down and picked up the phone, panting. Her life in her left hand. One bar. Her best friend in the other.

"What was that?" Cristina said.

"Nothing. Look, Cristina, now is really not good. Maybe after our next shift?"

Cristina snorted. "Not good? Not good! It's tequila, Meredith. Jose Cuervo! You always like tequila."

"Cristina," Meredith said, taking a small, short breath of preparation. "I'm in the middle of Derek's trailer of lust. Well, not really in the middle, more to the side and slightly…" She shook her head. "Whatever. Derek is sleeping, I'm staring at a pregnancy test trying to decide whether to cheer or… Something else." Like explode or just wilt with relief. "And, if I left, Derek would be stuck here because he can't drive." Not that he'd exactly mind, but… But… She wanted to stay. With him. And do stupid non-things. "I really think I'd just like to stay at the trailer right now and do all the boring geriatric couple things you hate. Okay? Because… lust. Trailer of lust. Except I'm not feeling lusty, it's decidedly not lusty, and it's nice. And quiet. And my head is spinning already. It's a non-lusty trailer of lust. It's more… grassy. And… Treeish or whatever. And I don't need tequila at one in the afternoon on my day off."

For a moment, all she heard was Cristina's soft breathing on the other end of the line, and Meredith stood there panting two breaths for every one of Cristina's, staring around at all the green stuff around her. She paced. A swarm of birds upset from the reeds and went flying in a spiral of color into the air, screeching. Something splashed. They resettled, and peace fell around her again. A breeze rustled through the clearing, and the distant water sparkled like broken glass on a blacktop. She looked back down at the pregnancy test and huffed a breath.

Definitely a new chapter or whatever.

"Negative, huh," Cristina finally said. "Is that the last one?"

"Yeah," Meredith said. "I think so."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

"That is good, right?" Cristina prodded cautiously.

"Yeah."

"Okay," Cristina said. "No McBabies, then."

"No. Not yet."

"Not yet?" Cristina exclaimed. "God, Mere. What has he done to you? You used to be so… So…"

"I don't want them now."

_You want them. You want them. You want them._

"Emphasis on the now. It implies there'll be a future positive. Meredith…"

_No, but yes._

Meredith sighed as she sat back down. The chair creaked in protest at the sudden, slamming weight. Her pants scraped against the dark, pollen-covered wood. "You're doing a crappy job at being tolerant, Cristina."

"I…" Cristina said, but her voice cracked and fell away. She huffed a breath. "Fine. Sorry. Just don't make me godmother, or I'll hurt you."

Meredith laughed. "I wouldn't dream of it. And you're not my maid of honor, either. Or my matron of honor. Or whatever."

"Good," Cristina said. "So long as we're clear."

"Crystal."

Cristina sighed. "Look, Meredith, I have to run. Mama found my hiding spot. She's not coming to the wedding, though. I put my foot down."

"That's… good?"

"You and me and Burke and McDreamy," Cristina said. "My foot is down. Her evil glaring won't change it. Burke's pouting won't change it. Mama or marriage. Not both."

"Right," Meredith said. A split second later, the line went dead, and all that was left was the sound of the leaves and the birds and the lake and everything else, blessedly silent, and yet… Not.

"Right," Meredith repeated to dead air, shaking her head. She hoped Cristina would be happy. She dearly hoped Cristina would be. But… "Right."

She stared down at the pregnancy test and stood as she flipped her phone shut. She paused. At the door of the trailer, she paused again, and she breathed, trying to find the scent that had had Derek so enamored as he'd leaned against the car. No car exhaust. Nothing stale or recycled or garbage-filled. Just water. And ground. And grass. She'd found it.

She sighed. A grin ripped across her face, and the clean air swept back against her throat. She pulled the door open with some judicious fumbling of her elbows and some nudging with her hip to keep her hands free. Derek still lay at the back of the trailer, oblivious to the world, but the smile on her face didn't go away.

Definitely better than tequila.

She tossed her phone onto the table next to her stack of boxes and thumped to the back of the trailer. She set the pregnancy test down on the nightstand for him to find. She didn't have the heart to wake him up. Not when he was so tired. It wasn't like this was the first test. Or even at all surprising at that point. But she didn't have any desire to hide it, either.

The sweat stains on his shirt had dried a little, evening out with the shade of the rest of his shirt, and his skin no longer glistened. His breaths came deep and even and rumbly, almost snoring, but not really. She pulled off her dirty pants and shirt and settled next to him, sighing at the musky scent of sweat and man and him. He didn't wake, but his arm snaked around her, finding her even in dreams. She rubbed his forearm with the tips of her nails, marveling at how his light, soft curls caught against her fingers. She stared at the sunroof, absent, letting her focus wander. His breathing stayed even and deep, and she let it soothe her. She watched the shaft of sunlight piercing the small bedroom from the window overhead slowly shift with the passing of minutes.

"I love you," she told him. He grunted. His arm flexed around her torso and went lax again. Somewhere in the haze of coming down off the high and dipping into the relaxation of being near him for no particular reason other than to be near him, she drifted off, far away, and yet closer than she'd ever felt before.

When she woke, he was gone, and in place of the pregnancy test on his nightstand, she found a small, yellow sticky note that, in his distinct, barely legible, doctorish script, said, "Lake." She sighed, breathing in and out, trying to blink away the grogginess of sleep. She sat up slowly. The sunlight cascading in through the windows kept her skin warm and she fought the lazy urge to fall back asleep despite his absence.

When she registered the pregnancy test poking out of the small waste bin on top of a bunch of other refuse from the move, she came awake like a shot. Damn it. She'd left it out for him to find. She suddenly wondered if perhaps that had been a little insensitive. Who'd want to wake up to their dreams getting crushed five inches from their face? Damn it.

She threw her dirty clothes on, not bothering to dig out clean stuff, and plodded out of the trailer onto the deck. His fishing poles and tackle box were all still stacked up against the side of the trailer, which left her puzzled. Lake. What was he at the lake for if not fishing?

She tore out into the weeds and headed toward the lake along the mud-caked, flattened path of grass that would, with time and hope, become a legitimate trail. The path spilled onto the dock without warning. She'd discovered that the first time she'd been there and found him drinking and fishing from a lawn chair. The lawn chair was still there, its patchwork of color sun-splotched and dirt-streaked. A pile of clothes sat folded neatly next to it, and a towel had been slung over the back.

But there was no Derek.

She frowned, only to be distracted by a loud, flopping splash. A splash too big for a little fish or a bird. She focused on the pale curve of his hip and the flick of his foot, pale alabaster against the near black of the lake, before he disappeared under the water. Shimmers of sunlight replaced the disruption, and, for a moment, she wondered if she'd been imagining things, until he surfaced about twenty feet farther out. He swept his hands back through his sopping hair, sending water flying everywhere. A soft, coughing sputter carried across the breeze, and then he dipped underneath the surface again.

He appeared again to the left, and didn't seem to have any particular destination in mind. She settled into the chair, leaning against the back of it, a soft smile caressing her lips. Two weeks ago, he definitely wouldn't have been able to do this. Not for any length of time. She watched the way the sun glistened against his back, the way the water sluiced down the line of his spine between the bunches of his muscles.

"Hey," she called softly when he looked over and stilled, though she doubted he could hear her at that distance. He was very small against the choppy expanse of the lake. Small and humbled.

He treaded water for a moment, staring at her, his expression unreadable. He dipped under the water again, reappearing once to catch his breath, and then a second time just below the dock. The water wavered along the slopes of his shoulders, though he seemed to have stopped treading, instead choosing to hang onto the thin, metal ladder at the edge of the long, wooden walk.

"Hey," he called up to her.

She bit her lip. "Derek, I…"

"I know," he said. He smiled brightly at her, water dripping from his hair and everywhere. Tufts of short hair stuck up in all directions, the tint of dark water making it appear black instead of raven brown. He looked sort of like a drowned rat. A cold, bluish, shivering drowned rat. But a happy cold, bluish, shivering drowned rat, and that was…

"I'm sorry," she felt compelled to say, but he shook his head. Water droplets flicked onto the surface of the lake by his shoulders.

"No," he said. "You're not allowed to be sorry. Not to me. You didn't want it yet, and you have nothing to be sorry for."

"No, but…"

"Mere, it's okay," he assured her. "I'm okay. Really."

"Which is why you're swimming naked in a freezing cold lake?"

"Well, no," he replied sheepishly. "I'm swimming naked in a freezing cold lake because I woke up next to my very sexy, nearly naked fiancé who looked like she needed the sleep."

She grinned and stood from the chair, shifting her position so that she lay flat against the dock, her chin propped against her hands and elbows as she stared down at him. "There are showers for that, you know."

He shrugged. "I haven't been out here in months, Meredith. It's going to be too cold soon."

"You're kind of blue, Derek," she said. "It looks like it's already too cold."

"Want to warm me up?"

"I'd love to," she said. "But not in the lake."

"Why not in the lake?"

"It's cold," she said, reaching down to touch the surface. Icy chill snaked up her fingers. She swept her fingers to his shoulders and then his cheek. Also icy. And bluish. He leaned into the touch, though she was surprised he could feel it at all when he looked nearly frostbitten like that. "And there's probably… mutant frogs or something. Newts. Whatever."

He looked down at the water and then back up to her with a quirky grin. "They're friendly newts."

"They're probably carnivorous."

"Oh, c'mon," he said with a low laugh. His fingers shifted on the ladder. "They're cute."

"Newts," she said. "Newts are cute?"

"Very," he said, giving her a serious nod. "You know, you didn't have this problem last time we were in here."

"Last time we were in here, you pulled me in, and I didn't have a chance to protest," she said.

The skin around his eyes crinkled, and he smirked as he shook his head, spraying water droplets everywhere. "So, you're more of a can't beat 'em, so I'll join 'em type of person."

"Yes," she said with a nod. "Very."

He frowned. "You should join me anyway. It's very lonely in here with just me and the newts."

"You just want to see me naked in freezing water," she said.

He winked. "The thought had crossed my mind, yes."

"I'm not perky enough on my own?"

"Oh, you're perky," he said with an approving smile. "You're very perky. But you could be perkier."

"We do have an outstanding fishing bet, you know. That doesn't require being in the water, does it? Couldn't we do that?"

"Right," he said. "We do have that."

"I was thinking maybe today," she replied.

"Hmm, we could." His brow creased as he considered it, which looked strange considering the fact that his whole body was shivering with cold. How much was there to really consider? She inched forward over the edge of the dock, creeping along like she was ducking underneath a warzone, and dipped down to kiss him. It was a freezing kiss.

"We definitely could," she said, breathless as she pulled an inch away.

He raised an eyebrow. He paused for a long, long moment. His fingers squeaked against the dock ladder. He dipped down a little, though she had no idea why. Further into freezing. Crazy. Ridiculously crazy. Waves lapped over his shoulders, and she stopped watching him for a moment to peer at the sun-kissed water instead. Sun-kissed looked warm. Just looking at Derek was making her shiver.

Another one of those long-necked, gray birds flew down over the water. It settled into the shallow water by the reads and started stalking along the far edge of the lake. She was about to ask him what kind of bird it was when he interrupted her thoughts.

"Charts for a month?" he asked.

"Charts for a month," she said, nodding.

He smirked. "No, I think I like this better."

For a brief moment, she had no idea what was happening. His height rose as though he were catapulting from the water via a cannon or something. The water level, which had been at his collarbone, became even with the creases of his skin where his groin turned into legs. Water slipped down against his pale skin, gleaming in the sunlight. His fingers found her waist, her pants dragged along the dock for a moment until he gathered enough leverage, and then she was sailing through the air like a lobbed melon.

The water plunged around her as she flailed and choked. Sharp, icy fingers slapped her skin and soaked her clothes. Clear air became indistinct, murky, muddy greenish-gray, and the shock of the sudden change and the soft pull of gravity left her sinking, sinking, sinking into the water. She goggled like a fish for a moment, her mouth opening, closing, opening, closing. Her feet found the bottom of the lake, which was silty and soft. Bits of weeds and other things squirted over the sides of her flip-flops and between her toes as she scrunched them, and then she jetted up to the surface, five feet above. She broke it, water spilling around her like the unfurling petals of a flower as she gasped, spitting water and hair and bits of plants from her face.

She reached up and brushed her eyes with her fingers, shivering, cold, shocked, only to have her blurry sight resolve on him. He treaded water about four feet from her, a quirky, devilish grin on his face. Her teeth started to chatter.

She ran her hands back through her hair. A wet, slopping sound chucked across the water as remnants of her dunking sloughed away with the motion, and she glared at him, sputtering. His evil smile faltered for a moment, and they stayed there, him treading water farther out, her standing neck deep in icy, murky lake water, her toes communing with who knew what on the muddy floor of dirt and caked… things. Her fingers, she noted, were already turning fleshy and blue as she lifted them to brush away more water from her eyes.

He started to shiver, and she realized. This was the first time they'd been in the water like this since… Since she'd drowned. He probably hadn't been thinking about it when he'd tossed her. She certainly hadn't.

And now they both were.

It could have been a moment.

It could have been.

Instead, she smiled, trying to ignore the trembling shivers racing through her bones as she reached under the water to yank her sopping shirt off. She tossed it back toward the dock.

"You bastard," she hissed playfully through her teeth. She dunked under the water to pull at her shoes. When she broke the surface again, she found him still there, the same spot, treading water, but the mischievous gleam had returned to his eyes.

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "The water's not so deep by the dock there."

"You freaking bastard," she repeated as her flip-flops landed with two solid, mucky thunks behind her on the boards of the dock.

He laughed, low and rumbly. Water spluttered from his shivering lips. "Are you going to join me, now?"

"No, I'm going to beat you!" she said as she yanked her pants off. Finally, she had freedom of movement. They landed behind her with a sucking thump. "Lemons into lemonade, my ass."

She darted forward, pumping with her feet, trying to get some momentum, but he slipped away like a dolphin, deeper into the chill. When she stopped to tread and rest, the echoes of his laughter curled down her spine, and she growled in frustration. He waggled wet eyebrows at her and sprayed water in a fan from his mouth. She darted forward, only to get left behind in the unfurling waves of his wake.

"Since when do you swim like that Thorpedo guy?" she spluttered.

He laughed. "Thorpedo guy?"

"I watched the Olympics for five minutes. And you're changing the subject. Since when, Derek?"

He shook his head. "I'm not changing the subject. You're the one that brought up Olympic swimming."

"You're so changing the subject!"

"Am not."

"Are, too!"

"Am not."

"Are, too!"

He kicked up a plume of white, frothy water as he arched his body forward and slipped under the surface. The water settled into stillness, and she kicked, treading, trying to figure out where he'd gone. "Derek?" she said.

She shrieked as his hand found her ankles, the world tilted, and suddenly she was over his shoulder, hands slipping along his slick, wet back and lower. He roared with laughter as he overturned her and sped away, pausing only to cop a feel. The water plunged around her again, and all she managed was a vague grasp at his toes before he torpedoed out of reach. She spun around, coughing against the influx of water as she righted herself and broke the surface.

"You naughty, dirty, mean, MEAN man," she growled, kicking after him.

"Want to know a secret?" he said as he back-kicked away from her, effortless.

She spat water into the lake, breathless, her heart throbbing with the effort of keeping up, and though she felt the chill, it was long gone from her immediate awareness. She laughed anyway as he taunted her along. "I don't know. Do I?" she said, panting as she doggy paddled after him, trying to conserve some energy.

A breeze lapped softly over the surface of the water, evaporating the water on her face and from her hair quickly, which sent shivers all the way to the tips of her submerged toes. A flock of aquatic-y birds spilled out from the distant reeds as Derek laughed, loud and throaty and… perfect, but he never got a chance to answer her. She shrieked as something slimy brushed against her foot.

"What?" he said, frowning as he closed the distance between them.

"A newt!"

"Newts are the size of my thumb, Meredith…"

"A mutant frog!"

"Meredith…"

"Maybe a fish…" she conceded.

He chuckled. "More like a weed. Fish won't swim up to you. They're shy, and they don't like noise."

"Whatever," she growled as he swam away again. "So, what's this secret? And, so help me, Derek, if a mutant frog fish newt hybrid… thing eats me…"

He chuckled. "I swam varsity in college," he admitted. "I sort of let you win the last time."

She stopped, spitting new bits of freezing water from her mouth. "You… You what?"

He winked. Water spilled away from him in rolling, smooth waves with the circular treading motions of his hands. "Oh, come on," he said. "You already thought I was an arrogant prick. I didn't want to show off even more."

"I still do think you're an arrogant prick," she said, laughing, amazed to realize he'd actually considered **not** showing off for her as a way to get her to like him more. "Except, now I have naughty, bad, bad, scary images of you in Speedos and it's just... It's wrong, Derek. Why? Why would you pick the one sport where spandex isn't cool?"

"There're sports where spandex is cool?"

"I don't know. Stuff."

"Stuff," he repeated, his eyes twinkling. "Olympic stuff, or just intramural?"

"Definitely."

The world blurred for a moment as she tried to hold it all in. She failed, and she found herself chortling and choking, drops of water flying everywhere as she struggled to keep afloat amidst the torrent of humor assaulting her.

"What are you laughing at now?"

"You." She snorted, barely able to breathe. Another laugh dribbled out after she forced some air into her lungs, and then another, and another. "Oh, I just thought of you. With little goggles and a cap to protect your perfect hair, and it's just…" Another heaving guffaw ripped through her frame. "Can't..." she stuttered. "Lycra." For a moment, she forgot to kick her feet, and as she sunk and sputtered with laughter, bubbles tore out from her mouth and water splashed everywhere. "Breathe..."

"You're mocking me."

"Derek!"

He slid up behind her, his fingers lightly grazing her hips. "I set state records, you know," he said, his voice low and growly against her clavicle.

"In little Speedos," she replied, giggling. "You set state records in little..."

She shrieked when he dunked under the water and found her feet. Birds went flying everywhere, startled at the horrendous noise, and she laughed, laughed, laughed as he dipped and darted like a fish, attacking her wherever she turned, trying to escape. Her eyes started to burn, and she sucked down air, trying to keep up with the spasms of choking laughter and shrieks. When she kicked, he caught her and tortured her more, and just when she thought she would burst at the seams, he stopped, swum an acrobatic, otter-like lap around her, just under the surface of the water, and popped up in front of her, grinning fiendishly as he pulled her close.

"Yes, but now?" he said, grinning. "Now, I'm naked."

"Mmm," she nodded, leaning into him. "You are."

"You're naked," he added.

"Mmm. I am."

"I'd say it's win-win," he said.

"I'd say it's just cold," she deadpanned.

His lecherous expression broke into a wide, amused smile as he shook his head. "Shameful," he said. "Just shameful. No sense of adventure."

"I have a sense of adventure in the tropics," she said. "Honest."

"Hmm."

"And you really are kind of a bastard, I hope you know. Really. I'm freaking cold."

"You love me for it," he said.

"I do. I really, really do."

"I love you, too," he replied. He disappeared underneath the water again, and she prepared herself for another tumbly Jaws moment, or a tickly one. When twenty seconds passed, she even began to hum the theme, trying not to let her muscles tense up. She glanced around, but the water was murky, and she'd lost track of him.

"Just when you thought it was safe," she muttered as her teeth started to chatter, but when he found her again, he gently slid up behind her. He was freezing, too, but somehow, everything seemed warmer when his arms wrapped around her waist. Her breathing eased as he held her up.

She turned around to face him. He panted softly, and from the look in his eyes, she knew they'd have to stop soon, or he'd wear himself out again. But in that moment, she let him support the both of them, and everything seemed perfect. She smiled.

"Well, I suppose the swimming thing helped you save my life," she said softly, breathless, "So, thank you."

His wet hair had flattened against his scalp, and it looked thick and full and sopping. Water dripped down his face, his shoulders, his neck. His skin shivered with chill. And, yet, he'd never looked happier. His fingers flexed against the small of her back. "Just returning the favor," he said, his lips quirking into a soft smile.

His lips parted, he inhaled, his fingers slipped away, and he disappeared under the surface of the water again. She started treading to keep herself from sinking after him, and watched the surface of the lake for his return. The sun had sunk toward the west horizon, and it hung low and tired orange over the tree line, proclaiming it was late afternoon, even for those not lucky enough to have waterproof watches. Like her. Slivers of light reflected off the murky, freezing, blue water, sharp like lightning, or a whorl of Christmas lights, or something.

She kicked forward one foot, two feet, three. A splash, distant and to her right, drew her gaze toward the dock. She watched Derek climb out of the water onto the dock by the chair where he'd piled his clothes and the towel. He was drenched and dripping, naked, glistening in the golden light. His torso heaved with breath after breath, and he looked a little thinner than he had been before the accident, still toned, but leaner and a little less healthy. She found herself biting her lip anyway, unable to tear her eyes away. He was hers, and that was enough to make her breathless.

He dried off and sat down on the dock, wrapped in the fluffy blue terrycloth, his feet dangling over the side. "Don't stop on my account," he called, and his voice hit her soft and distant over the breeze.

She smiled and tilted back into the freezing water, doing a sort of flip that no doubt gifted him with a rather graphic view of her full body. When she surfaced again, she found him watching her with rapt attention. She paddled toward him. "I'm not stopping on your account," she said as she approached the dock, breathing hard. "I'm stopping on the account of me being freezing and terribly out of shape or whatever."

He smiled, reaching down to help her out of the water. He lifted her as though she were nothing, despite his deep inhalation of breath and the slight shiver of his muscles that said otherwise. Water sluiced from her toes, and a puddle formed at her feet when he set her down next to him.

Even though the air itself was comfortable, the water on her skin was still very cold, and as it evaporated in the breeze, her entire body started to shake and twitch. She rubbed her palms against her forearms, trying to create friction, only to find herself buried in Derek's fluffy blue towel, his stomach pressed against her back. His skin had recouped some heat, and he felt like a furnace against her body. She rested her wet head against his shoulder as he rubbed her front, turned her, rubbed her back, turned her again, and wrapped them both back up, enveloping her with the cool, clean scent of him.

"Better?" he said as the shivers subsided.

She smiled. "Yeah. Mmm, Derek?"

"What?"

"That cold bath in the lake didn't work so well."

Derek chuckled, his palms sliding over her bare skin to cup her breasts. "Yes, it did."

She moaned as he rubbed her, leaning back into him, letting the friction warm her up. "I meant on you."

He shrugged. "Hmm," he murmured against her ear. He kissed her earlobe, pressing up against her. "I hate to break it to you, Mere, but you always do that to me."

"Oh."

"This is why scrubs being loose is a good thing," he said.

She swatted his arm. "Okay, now you're making surgery porny. You can't make surgery porny. Too many things are already far too porny."

"I think you have that backward," he commented. "And, really, can you have too much porn?"

She snorted. "You're such a guy."

"Well, yeah."

He relinquished the towel into her keeping, his palms coming to rest on her shoulders for a warm, still moment. She curled up underneath the warm terrycloth, but it wasn't nearly as adequate as he had been, skin-to-skin with her. She sighed, licking her lips as she shamelessly watched him collect his clothes from beside the chair.

He put them back on, letting her keep the towel because her things were still sopping. They walked back to the trailer. He made her coffee while she put on dry clothes, and then she sat at the small dining table, feeling spent and achy. Her eyes burned a little when she blinked, and inertia drove her to remain sitting, relishing the relaxed, sleepy, quivering feeling in her muscles that told her she'd exercised. A lot.

Derek, however, barely paused. He took three sips from his steaming mug, set it on the counter, and started rummaging around the trailer, gathering odds and ends from this cabinet, that cabinet… He pulled an old, ratty backpack from underneath the dashboard in the front.

She watched him with curiosity while he collected a flashlight, some blankets, and a few wrapped granola bars that crinkled as he mashed them together into a stack, and then packed them into the beat-up nylon backpack. He dumped the leftover coffee from the pot into a thermos and shoved it in with the rest of the things he'd just crammed together.

"What's that for?" she asked as she sipped on her coffee. Warmth spread tendrils into her chest with every swallow, relaxing her into a dull stupor of comfortable post-exertion.

He looked up as he stuffed a little compass into the bag. A compass? "I really want to show you something if you're up for some walking," he said. "Not far. Just… It's the perfect sky for it."

She regarded him. Walking? With a compass? A compass implied there was a possibility of getting lost. Didn't it? Wasn't that more like hiking? And Derek… he'd been swimming all afternoon and lugging boxes and… But he stared at her, his eyes twinkling with such rapt excitement that she couldn't bring herself to say anything other than, "The perfect sky?"

He nodded enthusiastically. "Yes. You'll like it. I swear."

"Is it cold? I've met my daily quota on frozen limbs."

He laughed. "No. Well, it will get chilly when the sun sets. But…" The zipper on the backpack snarled as he pulled it closed. "Please?"

She eased onto the sofa and took another sip of coffee. Her body ached from all the exercise. Her bones still felt cold. But the way he was staring at her, practically bouncing with excitement… She hadn't seen him so lively since… Well… Months. Just before George's dad had died, before the whole who-will-be-Chief mess had blown up around them, she'd seen the last hint of it, and, really, not in full since before Addison. And… Nature. She'd said she wanted to try the nature-y hobby stuff. No chickening out, Grey, she told herself. Absolutely not. She brushed her pants off, standing as she emptied the last of her coffee cup.

"Okay," she said, unable to hide the reluctance in her voice. Derek didn't seem to care. He told her to put on old stuff. A sweatshirt. And so she did, and within an hour, she found herself trailing behind him as he led her into the wilderness, the holey backpack slung over his shoulders almost haphazardly.

He certainly hadn't decked himself out with piles of preparation and readiness like the hikers in disaster movies always did. They were seriously not prepared for any particular eventuality other than finding north and dealing with ravaging granola cravings, let alone every eventuality. She suspected that his embarrassing secrets ended with Speedos, and not in a Boy Scout uniform. But the point was, there were trees. And grass. And no path. Or map. Or anything. It was freaking wilderness. Well, maybe not entirely wilderness. She caught glimpses of radio towers over the tree line, and she knew the island was only so big. Well, miles. And miles were pretty big when there were trees and bears and rotting logs and grass in the way of point A to B. But…

She glanced back woefully as Derek's nice little trailer slipped from sight.

"We should keep doing this," he said as they plodded through the field. Thick, wet grass stalks slapped her knees and elbows, and she couldn't help but imagine the sweat trickling down her spine was a bug, creeping…

"Walking?" she said, panting. Two poorly equipped hikers were found, rotting corpses in the bush today, a spokesperson for the park rangers said. Yes, a real shame. We hear they were supposed to get married in Connecticut.

"Yeah," he said. He stopped to smile at her. "Maybe get another dog."

"A dog, Derek?" she asked. They resumed, and the thick clots of tall grass turned into woods. "Are you sure you know where you're going? It's getting kind of dark."

The surrounding sounds grew muffled and quieter, somehow, in the thick canopy of leafy trees and overgrowth. She gripped at a sapling, catching her balance, only to have her hand come away covered with brown, wet bark particles. Something snapped in the distance. Like something large. Moving. She glanced that way, but Derek seemed unperturbed. She sighed. Well, there was nobody she'd rather be a bleached corpse with, she supposed. She looked up, and could see the deepening blue of the sky through the gaps in the trees overhead.

"I love dogs," he said. "And, yes, Meredith, dark is the point for this. And we're not lost. I swear. I've been this way a thousand times." His feet snapped on the dead twigs below their feet, and he pointed to a tree with a spray-painted red X on it as they passed by the trunk. "See? I knew that was going to be there."

"I love dogs, too, but," she said. "You're sure? A thousand times? It seems kind of overgrown for you having been through here a thousand times."

Maybe he would be all Tarzan to her Jane. They'd get lost, and he'd be like, Arrr, I hunt!

She shook her head.

No.

"I'm sure," he replied. "So, what's the problem with a dog?"

"It's just…" she said, finally letting her mind drift from predictions of doom.

She bit her lip as her drifting landed her mind's eye on thoughts of Doc. He'd been a sweet, happy dog. She'd made a horrible mistake getting him, because she hadn't been able to take care of him, and he'd been an attempt by her to fill the void left behind in Derek's absence, which was not a good reason to get a pet. In the end, he'd been Derek's dog. And that… She'd…

Their dog. They'd never shared a dog before. Only traded one. And it was silly. Silly that she was letting her eyes twist up with tears over the prospect of sharing a freaking dog. But they tore up anyway. Particularly because it wouldn't be filling any sort of void. Just adding to the family. Family. Derek was her family, now, too.

"You want to get a dog?" she said. "Together? Together, together? As in our dog? Not your dog or my dog, but… A dog that's ours. Really?"

"Sure," he said, pushing forward through the trees. "Why not? I have space, and my hours are a lot more flexible than yours. If there was an emergency or something, I could deal with it."

The darkness thickened around them, and it seemed like they were stuck in a maze of saplings and leaves. She'd lost track of the field behind them and certainly had no idea where the hell they were, though, they couldn't have gone that far from the trailer. They'd only been walking for about twenty-five minutes.

She was about to ask again if he was sure he knew what the hell he was doing, when, suddenly, the trees stopped. She gasped as they stumbled out into a small clearing, and the darkness brightened into sharp oranges and pinks of sunset. Dry, dead tree-trunks spiked up like pillars in an altar for the sky, which was a dusky dome of darkening blue spilling out overhead. To the east, it plunged behind the line of green where the trees began again, thick and midnight-touched. To the west, it turned into fire against a lone strip of puffy clouds.

"Here we are," he said.

Short, lush green grass spilled across the clearing. A small pond glimmered in the waning light, ending in a copse of low brambles and thicket before disappearing into an even thicker sprawl of taller trees. Lily pads and flowers covered the surface of the water.

Derek wrapped his arms around her as she stared, wide-eyed. Eyes glittered in the distance. Two deer rose up from the grass and scattered, crashing into the thicket, gone before she even had a chance to flinch and wonder what she was looking at. Their parting left behind only the clear, sparkling burble of the pond water as it spilled into some stream she couldn't see from there, the low croak of frogs, and the rasping sound of insects and life all around them.

"See?" he whispered, low and rumbly against her neck.

"Wow," she agreed.

"It gets better," he said. He set the backpack down against one of the shorter stumps and unfurled one of the blanket's he'd crammed into it. He spread it out against the damp ground. "Lie down," he said.

She was about to do as he asked when he stilled, staring in the distance toward the opposite end of the clearing.

"What is it?" she said, low and worried. Bears? Maybe cougars. Or something else with teeth. Did wolves live there?

"Shhh," he said, waving a hand absently at her. On his face, she didn't see any hint of fear. His lips curled with a small hint of mirth, and his eyes sparkled with glee.

She turned to peer in the direction that had captivated him. A small, dim light sparked in the distance and went out, leaving only the fuzzy outline of thicket and a mess of grass and trees behind.

"What?" she asked, whispering. For some reason, this place seemed to demand reverential respect. "I don't see anything."

"Look," he said, pointing sharply as another light flashed on and off like a beacon in the waning daylight.

"Lightning bugs?" she said.

"Fireflies," he replied. "I've never seen them here before."

"Let me guess," she said. "You were one of those kids who caught them and stuck them in old peanut butter jars. And they're called lightning bugs."

"Fireflies," he corrected absently.

"Lightning bugs!" she insisted before tromping toward the pair of lights dancing by the line of trees. In that moment, she forgot all about the horrible things that could jump out and eat her.

"Where are you going?"

She laughed. "They're no fun if you don't catch them."

"I thought you were just scolding me for putting them in jars," he said. He caught up with her, his feet whispering against the grass as they tore through it.

"So, you admit it," she said, smirking as she closed in on her quarry. "So mean. You're a mean, mean man. And I didn't say anything about jars."

She followed the closest glowing dot and reached out with her fingers, swiping the bug into her grasp, imprisoning it between her palms. The insect landed on the flesh of her hand. Its little feet tickled as it wandered, trying to find a way loose. She giggled as she peered into the small gap between her thumb and the roof provided by her index finger.

"What are you…" he whispered, looking over her shoulder. "You're torturing it."

"I am not," she said as the space between her palms lit up with a soft, yellow glow. "He's cute."

"How do you know it's a he?"

"I don't know," she said. "He looks like a Bob to me."

"Bob," Derek replied, chuckling. "A firefly named Bob?"

"Lightning bug," she said.

"Firefly."

His arms slipped under her knees and around her shoulders, and the world tilted backward as he pulled her off the ground into his embrace. The little firefly flew free, buzzing off with a soft, on off glow.

"Derek!" she shrieked as he carried her back to the blanket. "What are you doing?"

He grinned, his eyes sparkling in the dusk. "Catching a firefly," he replied. He set her down on her back against the blanket. Rocks and sticks and little things dug into her back, but as he surrendered to the ground on top of her, it didn't seem to matter much. His warm body settled against her, his warm breaths softly laving her in the dim.

"Lightning bug," she whispered as he leaned down to kiss her.

"Definitely lightning," he agreed, and then he took her breath away.

Her knee came up to rest against his hip, and he thrust against her. The sounds of the pond and the frogs and the birds and everything swelled up around her and faded into a rush of heartbeats and thunderous panting. She tore her fingers through the short, straight tufts of his hair, moaning. His hand slipped under her shirt, and it was only when she arched back and found herself staring at the clearing upside down through the slits between her eyelashes that she paused, breathless, shivering with desire. Awed.

"Derek, stop," she whispered, patting his ribs gently with her palm. "Look."

He pulled away, breathing hard and glistening with sweat despite the slowly chilling air. His eyes were creased with frustration, but he did what she asked and looked up.

There weren't just two. There were dozens. Yellow dots winked on and off in the dim blur of the day becoming night, drifting lazily like flotsam in a lake or maybe seed pods on the breeze. They hovered over the grass, tangoing, finding each other and parting in an intricate, patternless dance.

Derek flopped beside her and propped his chin against his palms as he watched. "Those things aren't supposed to be this far west," he marveled. "I've never seen one out here before."

She grinned, tearing her gaze away from the silent spectacle to peer at him. "There's a first time for everything," she said with a smile.

He cocked his head to the side, a pleased-looking shiver ripping through his body. "There is," he agreed.

They watched the fireflies until the world at last plunged into night, and they were alone in the black of the clearing. "So, what else did you want to show me?" she asked softly as she settled against his body and rested. "What's the sky perfect for?"

"Look up," he said.

She did. She gasped at the whorl of stars overhead. "Oh," she said dumbly. The pale band of the Milkyway was actually visible. She'd never seen it before, but she'd heard it was possible. The stars winked and twinkled like a carpet of the fireflies that had just departed, and she sighed, relaxing into his embrace. His palm caressed her hip.

"Neat, huh," he said. "I found this place by accident."

She smiled. "I think I like it here."

He turned to her, his eyes glittering in the darkness. "I tried to get Addison to come once, but she wouldn't."

She shrugged. "I'm not Addison," she said.

"Nope," he agreed, his voice short and clipped and light. "Definitely not." He squeezed her, and she sighed as she stretched against him. "Are you cold?"

"No," she said.

"Good," he replied.

They cuddled up and watched the stars in silence.

* * *

_**Notes: I think i got the idea of Derek as a swimmer from another fic, but for the life of me, I have no idea where. I just wanted to say thank you to whoever thought of it first. Thank you :)**_


	53. Chapter 51

**Author's Notes: Thank you so much for being patient with me, everyone. My life has been a bit... Not fun. Lately. On top of that, I had a bit of writer's block that didn't help things at all. I really, really struggled with this part. I think I nearly broke my brain on it. Feedback keeps me going a lot better than the show at this point. Please? I hate to beg, but, really, please:) Did I mention the broken brain?**

* * *

The water spread out like a gray, glass sheet. Slivers of broken, white surf exploded in a spray of froth and foam, only to disappear when they slipped back into endless, choppy murk. Chill buffeted his cheeks as he stared along the gray horizon line. Distant, low-hanging nimbus clouds formed a second dark line, and the deep blue of rain formed a wet, misty sheet between them. The rain hadn't reached Seattle yet. But it was coming. 

He blinked, wiping his face with his free hand, clutching his warm coffee mug in the other. If he watched the horizon line, he was okay. He was riding the ferry into Seattle. The smell of oil and flames, the wailing cries of search and rescue sirens, and the roar of controlled panic had long since passed into memory. His fiancé was very much warm, alive, and smiling as she rested against the crook between his shoulders, her thin, strong arms wrapped around his midsection, hands clutching at his coat. He was on his way to work for the first time in eight weeks.

By all means, he should have been ecstatic.

And he was. As long as he looked at the horizon line.

If he put his head down, he became aware that his body was moving. Up and down. Up and down. Subtly. And that drew his attention to the twisting gnarl of his stomach, which had been coiling into tighter and tighter knots ever since he'd woken up. The closer to the ferry's destination he found himself, the more his body protested.

He hadn't been able to eat breakfast. He'd stared, uninterested, at the bagels Meredith had bought the day before, unable to think of them as food. Unable to think of anything as food.

No breakfast.

He leaned back into Meredith's arms and stared. The horizon line was flat and calm and wet. And he was all right. He clenched his free hand around the railing. The chill metal served a sharp contrast to the warm coffee mug in his other hand. Cold, dried, bumpy paint scraped against his palm as he twisted his grip.

He was on his way to work for the first time in eight weeks.

"Derek, if you're not ready to go back yet…" Meredith whispered into his neck as if she'd read his mind.

Water slapped against the side of the boat as the ferry sliced through the Sound. He closed his eyes, letting the wind whip against his skin. "Mere…"

"I mean just because Burke and Cristina are out on their honeymoon, and Dr. Krycek is on maternity leave, it doesn't mean…"

"Mere, I'll be fine," he assured her. "Really. I'm going to have to go back sooner or later. Neurosurgery is down three with me, Dr. Krycek, and Dr. Shriver. I need to…"

"You need to," Meredith agreed with a definitive nod as he turned to face her. "Because you're bored, and going crazy, and tired of being not okay, and I… We're not going to be like that? Right? We're not."

"Like…" His voice trailed away, and he squinted at her, wondering when she'd made a left turn in the conversation and how he'd missed it. "What? Mere, what?"

Her eyes widened. "Mother hen," she blurted. "Bad. Bad, bad, bad. I'm stopping, I swear."

"Meredith, what are you talking about?"

"Cristina and Burke!" she exclaimed.

"What?"

"It's just… They hid it," she said. "When Burke wasn't ready. His hand shook, but he did surgeries anyway. And then they didn't talk, and Cristina was a wreck and forced to eat cereal. And then they were getting married. And then Mama was glaring, and it was just… She has to be happy, Derek. She has to…"

"Okay, Mere? Meredith. You're…" He paused, growling in frustration. He usually had a much easier time getting a read on her, even when her words weren't making that much sense. But now? "You're losing me, here. I really have no idea what you're talking about. I'm sorry." Which made him feel slow and inadequate, but he held on anyway because he had a feeling this was one of those sink or swim moments. He clutched his hands around her shoulders and stared at her. The coffee mug dangled precariously.

"It's just," she said, sighing, "I want her to be happy so bad, and during the wedding, she looked like she wanted to strangle something."

"I did sort of notice that," he replied.

He looked down at his hand, imagining a wedding ring sliding over the left ring finger, piloted by her thin, arching fingers. He'd exchanged rings once before. The metal had felt gelid against his skin. Nerves had robbed him of his body heat and the sureness of graceful, deliberate movement. The gold band had slipped over his knuckle and settled, wrapped around his skin, a promise for a long, long future that, sadly, hadn't been fate's plan.

That would be the difference, this time. There would be no nerves. And it wouldn't be a promise. Promise implied there was a chance it could be broken.

It wouldn't be.

"I wonder where Mama was," Meredith mused.

"I don't know, Mere," he said, shrugging. "I didn't ask."

"Maybe they had a fight. Before. About… Where she would be. And that's why Cristina was mad. Maybe."

"Maybe."

"We're not going to be like that, though," she said.

Meredith stared at him, her gray eyes hooded with such a serious look of consternation it disturbed him. She didn't make it a question. It wasn't one. But her tone quivered, and it tore at his heart that she still had moments like this. Moments where she wasn't sure. Even tiny ones.

If there was one thing in his life he was sure about, it was this. Them. And he wished it was a feeling he could share like a piece of bread, or an extra kernel in a popcorn bowl. Here, have some. Sureness. I'm overflowing, and it tastes delicious.

Certainty wasn't like that, though. For her. She couldn't pluck it from other people who were ripe with it. She needed her own garden, and she had one, slowly healing. Anger spiraled through him as he imagined all the reasons why it needed healing. Thatcher walking out. Ellis giggling in a closet with another man. Derek Shepherd, telling her he had a wife.

Moments like this made him want to scrape and claw and kick and shout. Nobody deserved it, least of all her, and the fury over the injustice and his own stupidity always made him tremble. Instead, he channeled all that fire, and he kissed her until the world around them peeled away. He wasn't on his way to work for the first time in eight weeks, they weren't on a boat, and he wasn't nauseated with nerves about whether he could, or should. He was Derek Shepherd. Able-bodied at sweeping his fiancé off her feet. Able-bodied, strong, and certain.

She tasted warm and bitter like his coffee, but he didn't care. Warm and bitter was perfect. Her lithe fingers clutched the lapels of his dark coat and yanked him closer as her weight sagged, nerveless. He dipped forward against her backward arch, the palm of his free hand in the small of her back, and held them both up.

"Absolutely not," he stated, brushing her swollen lips with his before pulling away. Close, but far enough away for some perspective, he could still count her freckles, not that he didn't already know how many there were. He'd counted them a thousand times. He could see every line and follicle and blemish. Her lashes brushed low against her cheeks. He gripped her chin, hovered nose-to-nose, and breathed her in. He brushed his cheek against her own and settled against the softness of her earlobe, his nose buried in the loose strands of her hair. Lavender. Heat. Even in the chill, despite the wind and frothy, choppy, nauseating water, she warmed him and made the world go still. He told her, low and thrumming and sure, as he slid his arms behind her waist and pulled her close.

"Meredith," he continued, wishing he could hear her heartbeat over the roar of everything else, "When we walk down that aisle, or meet at city hall, or elope in Vegas, or step over a broomstick, whatever you want to do, it's going to be because you're ready, and you want it. And if you're not ready? We won't. Simple as that. I'm happy to be with you. The rest is just details. You said yes. You said yes, and you meant it, even if you're not sure when or where or how, and that means more to me than any pomp and circumstance."

Her eyes narrowed, irises twinkling even in the gray. "I love you," she replied, though the statement had the lilt of a comma but at the end, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

"I love you, too," he said.

"And I love your family," she continued.

He nodded. "Our family."

"Our family," she amended. "It's just…"

"Just what, Meredith?" he prodded.

"Promise me we're not going to be robbing any banks? Please?" she said, her voice tiny, hopeful. "Because I'm so far in this at this point that if you asked me to, I would, and I… You're not the best about telling me when you're strapped for cash or whatever, and it could be just… I don't ever want to be like them. Like Cristina and Burke. She's my person, and I love her, but yesterday? Yesterday, she scared the ever-loving crap out of me. And I don't ever want to be her. Ever. I'm done with dark and twisty. I'm so freaking done."

"What?" He blinked. "Mere, I… What?"

She sighed. He watched the frustration clamor across her gaze, sparking like firecrackers, and he felt a mirror of it collecting in his gut. Pop. Pop. Pop. Get with it. Why can't you understand her today? Was he really that slow? Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Something made him feel like he should know what she was referring to. A wispy ghost of something, a thought, a smell, a taste, stuck in the back of his head.

_Bank robberies. Which isn't really the point. It's just that she was jogging, and…_

Meredith's fingers scraped lightly down his neck in a petting gesture robbed of affection by need. Need to make him understand. She pulled him out of drifting, and he saw that need flare in her eyes. "If you're not okay, promise you'll stop without me having to drag you?" she clarified. "And that you'll tell me? You're so much better, Derek. You're so, so much better. But you're not… You're not…" Okay.

You're not okay.

He sighed. Reality crept back, and the boat started to rock again. The chill wind slapped away the feeling in his skin. He was going to work, and he was vastly not okay. Everyone would know it. Everyone he hadn't wanted staring at him while he was bedridden, doped, shaved, and naked. They'd be staring, now. Staring while he calculated dosages, tried to read charts and answer questions, tried to act human when he still felt strange and foreign all the time except when he wasn't thinking at all, or when Meredith had taken the world away for him.

"I know, Meredith," he said. "I'm… But if I wait until everything is in tiptop shape again, I won't be working for months, still, or… never. And I need to work Meredith. I love to fish and relax and hike. But I'm just not built to do it twenty-four seven. I'm a surgeon. And I'm going crazy."

"I know," she said. She leaned into his space and assured him, "It won't be never."

For a long moment, he couldn't take his eyes from her. From her certainty. Her confidence in him. Ripe like red delicious apples dangling from a tree in May. And he knew innately why he couldn't fix things for her, because now? Now, she couldn't fix things for him. He could reassure her over and over and over. He could be certain until the world ended. And she would find comfort in the fact that he was so sure. She would find comfort, but she wouldn't find her own certainty unless it stemmed from herself.

You're broken. And you're not ready.

He leaned into her and sighed. Her tiny body felt so fragile next to his. Fragile and his. He sniffed, blotting the world away in the darkness of her hair. Her scent. Her. The roar of the ferry underneath his feet seemed distant, but it was there. A roar. Underneath. Malevolent.

"Sometimes, it feels like it," he confessed. "I still feel so retarded sometimes, it… I'm scared. I have to work, Meredith. If I don't start working again…"

You might always be broken. You need to not be broken.

She frowned. "You're not re..." she said, unable to finish the word. "You're not."

"I have to think about thinking. And I have to… What if people think I'm…"

"They won't. You're eight weeks out from surgery to repair a traumatic brain injury. A traumatic brain injury, Derek. Nobody will think…" A sigh puffed past her lips. "Nobody expects… It's not…" He watched the way her lips curled as she stumbled over reassurances, the way her eyes shifted, and the soft movements of her skin. "But you have to… If you're not okay? You have to stop and admit it. You can't just… be Derek-y about it. You can't. Your body wants you to go slow for a reason."

"I know. I promise," he said, feeling better as he watched her body relax. He'd won something in that moment. Won something with her. And that felt… Good. Even in the stumble and churn of everything else. "And we'll never be them, Meredith. Not ever. I'll page you if it gets bad. I swear."

"Okay," she replied, smiling deeply at him. "Okay," she echoed herself, distant and quiet. She left his embrace and approached the railing to stare at the choppy gray. Her lithe fingers tapped the railing, and he found himself settling next to her, shoulder-to-shoulder, to watch the stormy horizon. If he watched the horizon, he didn't feel sick.

"We're commuting together, you know," she said, her voice quiet against the breeze and the roar and the waves.

He turned to her. If he watched Meredith, he didn't feel sick either. "We are," he replied. He took a sip from his coffee mug. Bitter warmth snaked down his throat and didn't quite settle. He grimaced. Bad idea. He counted her eyelashes until he felt steady again, and she waited, as if she sensed his difficulty.

"On a ferry," she said once the world had re-settled. "We're commuting together. Like a couple that works together."

"Meredith," he said with a laugh, enjoying the roll of her name against his tongue. "We are a couple that works together. We sort of always have been."

"But we're commuting together," she said. "And that's…"

He grinned, inching against the railing until his shoulder made her body slant. He couldn't get closer, so he wrapped his arm around her and she rested there against his body. "Yeah," he replied. "It is."

"I like it."

"Me, too."

They settled. She watched the choppy water for a moment. He watched her.

"Do you think they're having fun?" Meredith mused. "In Hawaii?"

"Burke and Cristina?"

"Yeah."

"If I was in Hawaii with the woman I love, I'd be happy," he said. "And I'd be having fun."

"They have to have fun," she said, turning to peer at him. "Right? In the moments we're not there watching them? I mean… They can't possibly…"

"I'm sure Cristina had reasons for saying yes, Meredith," Derek assured her. "She's too…" He searched for a word, trying not to get frustrated when it wouldn't come. Too… Self-assured? Bossy? Definitive? Abrasive? None of those were quite right.

"Yeah," Meredith agreed despite his faltering speech, as if she knew what he was trying to say before he did. He sighed. "We'll have fun wherever we're going," she added.

He closed his eyes and imagined the roar of the waves underneath them as the soft roll of surf in the distance. "Somewhere with a beach."

"Definitely somewhere with a beach," she replied.

His balance shifted when her hip bumped into his. She slid along the railing, her forearms brushing the cold, painted metal. The small, pink tip of her tongue slipped out between her lips, her skin flushed, and he watched the twinkle in her eyes as he caught himself from falling on his ass.

"The boat," she said, her voice quivering with laughter. "It's choppy."

"Really?" he said. "I hadn't noticed."

He bumped her in return, and she shrieked. He felt dozens of gazes shift to them in response to the flailing commotion, but he didn't care. He kissed her, and in the distance, he heard a haze of clapping and whistles. "You're right," he murmured against her skin. "It's choppy."

Her fingers slipped through his hair, and he sighed, his hand clenching around his coffee mug. He supposed it was good. That he had the coffee mug. If he didn't, he'd have had two hands with which to ravish her, and nothing to keep his flagging sense of propriety in check. It wouldn't do to sweep her off her feet, only to spill coffee down her pants or something. Then again, her shirt was white, and it would probably look quite delectable when it was wet and sticky. He halted a growl before he made it, instead forcing his mind back to things like talking. And thinking. Talking and thinking.

Both were admirable endeavors.

"How hopeful are you on a scale from one to ten that we'll even make it out of the bedroom on our honeymoon?" he asked, woefully unable to make the talking and thinking about anything of substance.

"Hmm," she purred. Her index finger traced the bump of his scar, which was buried underneath an inch of thick, raven-brown hair. "Nine."

"Wow, nine?"

"Yeah. You promised me sex on a balcony overlooking the beach."

"Oh, right," he said with a sheepish snort. "Well, discounting that."

Her lips flattened into a wide, lazy grin, and her eyes went glassy as her focus lost him and found someplace else. "Zero," she replied, and he fought the urge to die a lazy death as she twisted her fingers through his hair, over and over and over. He loved having his hair back. He really did.

"Hmm," he considered. "I don't know whether to be pleased or intimidated."

"Oh, like you actually planned on playing tourist with me?"

"Could be fun, you know," he said. "We could use a real camera this time. See the sites. Add to your knickknacks."

"We could," she agreed with a little nod. "Where do you…" Want to go?

"No idea," he said.

"Me either."

"We have time," he said. "It's only September."

She grinned, turning back to watch the water. "We do."

The rest of the trip passed in quiet. Their breaths traded in the silence, and they stood, shoulder-to-shoulder, watching, waiting, his nerves held hostage in the warmth of the moment.

He was on his way to work for the first time in eight weeks, but it didn't matter as the ferry finally found its port. It didn't matter as they wandered down to the car. It didn't matter as she drove them out of the canopy of the boat and into the new splatter of rain. It didn't matter as she found a parking spot, and it didn't matter as she asked him one last time if he was sure. Because they were commuting. Like a couple that worked together. On a ferry. In a car. And it was so perfect it made him ache.

It wasn't until he found himself standing alone in the attendings' locker room, his fingers slipping against the plastic wrap that hugged a newly sterilized pair of navy scrubs, that he realized just how thoroughly he'd lied to himself. To Meredith. The chains around his thumping heart and worried thoughts shucked away with hollow, rusty clinks, leaving him almost breathless with the uncertainty. He threw the scrubs packet on the bench. His fingers trembled as he tried to enter the right locker combination.

Page her if it got bad. It was already bad. The nerves she'd robbed him of had returned on stealthy feet, piling in his gut like worms, twisting, quickly enough that he didn't notice until they were overpowering. A thin bead of sweat trickled down the small of his back, slow and creeping, like a bug. He tore his fingers through his hair, resisting the fluttery impulse to pace, pace, pace.

His locker door flung open with the strength of his yank, and he found himself staring at things he hadn't laid eyes on in months. From the hook on the right wall hung his white lab coat. In the maze of long neglected folds and twists of fabric, he could just make out the blue cursive embroidery on the pocket that bared his name to the world. Dr. Derek Shepherd. On the left wall hook, his stethoscope hung precariously, swaying in the aftershocks of his intrusion. His battered black cross trainers sat on the overhead shelf, their laces a spill of tangled spaghetti. A collection of disorganized junk sat at the bottom in a pile. Papers. Notes. Socks -- some dirty, some not. A pen. A few other odds and ends. A small photograph of Meredith the size of an index card hung against the rear wall, glossy and hard to see in the dark, but there. Meredith didn't know he had it. Usually, it hid behind his coat, invisible to any questioning eyes. Her gray eyes peeked at him as he swept his shaking hand against the coarse white fabric of his lab coat and removed it from the hook, replacing it with his black duster.

He was at work, and there was no going back, now. People would know. Dr. Derek Shepherd was a little bit broken. Or maybe a lot. He wasn't quite sure.

He sat against the bench and pulled clean, navy scrubs up his legs, sighing at the soft feel of them against his skin. It was the first time in his life that they felt… wrong. Like a butterfly crawling back into the cocoon. Wrong. Unnatural. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to… Was he?

He leaned forward and sighed into his hands. His hands. He could hold them still, direct them to do precise movements. He still had his physical finesse, which made his mental stumbling seem so much more pronounced. He could grip a scalpel and draw it down a plane of flesh. In a perfect world, that was fine. He was a surgeon, and he was ready. He could cut just as adroitly as he'd always been able to. But what about a flat line?

He closed his eyes, listening to the distant whine of shrieking monitors. A heart stops. Ask Dr. Derek Shepherd for the precise dosage of epinephrine or the voltage needed on the defibrillator?

He couldn't do it without tearing apart his brain piece by bloody piece, rifling desperately for an answer that laughed at him, making faces just beyond his reaching grasp. Patient's weight? Patient's age? Patient's… what? What had he been hunting for?

Bleep. Dead. I think that was enough electricity to kill a horse.

He wasn't clueless. He was just being blackmailed by all the fucking clues. We'll let you know the answer if you beat the inside of your skull to a frustrated, bloody pulp, first, and not a moment sooner.

And what about the stretch of moments? That eleventh hour, eleventh in a long procession of painful moments? He cut beautifully the first time. The second time. The third time. The fourth. Maybe even the fifth. By the sixth repetition, asking his fingers to do something so precise began to hurt. Not his fingers. But his eyes. His pupils wouldn't want to wind into sharp pinpricks of focus anymore. His mind. The space behind his nose would begin to throb. He would stare and blink and force himself steady, try to keep everything sharp and clear. But then a pin would drop, a sheet would rustle, a clock would tick. Maybe a spoken word would wrap around his neck like a noose.

It didn't matter. It happened when he was repairing his fishing poles. It happened when he was fixing doorjambs. It happened when he cut up fresh salmon for dinner. And it would surely happen if he were to cut into someone's brain matter. Dr. Derek Shepherd would look up whether he wanted to or not.

Bleep. Dead. Did you mean to cut that artery?

He could think when he wasn't pushing it. Any sort of pressure brought him crumbling into frustration. He'd had Meredith test him with some of her intern flashcards and an egg timer, and he'd felt like a bumbling fool by the end. Slow and stuttery and stupid. He still knew the answers. They were all there. But when did a surgeon ever need the answer eventually? A surgeon needed answers now. Now, now, now.

And he couldn't do it. He knew he couldn't. People would notice as soon as they started grilling him. They would know he was damaged. He never wanted anyone to look at him as that guy who used to be really smart. That guy who used to be capable. That guy who needed a few extra seconds.

What the fuck had ever possessed him to come back so soon?

He needed to not be that guy. The guy who used to be really smart. The guy who used to be capable. The guy who needed a few extra seconds.

He couldn't stay at home in the trailer anymore. He couldn't stare at the lake and think forever, no matter how slow his thoughts were. And he couldn't listen to another one of Meredith's bright-eyed, cheerful stories about how fascinating her day had been, moments that made him want to hug her and hurt her all at once, because he was supposed to be there, too. In those stories. He was supposed to be there.

He was a surgeon. And he needed to do it again, or he'd go crazy. He'd seen far too many people rot after a brain injury, seen far too many people let themselves get frustrated and just… stop. Stop living, convinced they couldn't do things anymore, convinced they'd never heal. Some really didn't heal.

But he wouldn't be one of those.

He wouldn't.

Right?

Right.

"Hey, Shep," Dr. Lewis said, his tone deep and thrumming, as he stepped out from behind a row of lockers. "Really good to see you back."

Derek nodded and smiled, watched the world tilt as the friendly slap to his shoulder sent his limp, nervous body reeling. He swallowed around his tongue, which felt too thick. Too thick to form words, and so he settled for just the smile and the nod, hoping nobody would think him rude.

He thought about visiting the Chief. He thought about it. The Chief knew he was coming back to work today. The Chief had been the one who'd called him to subtly hint that with Dr. Burke gone and neurosurgery down at least three very good surgeons, the hospital was woefully understaffed.

But right then, right at that moment, he didn't think he could stomach a spiel about taking it easy, a spiel that would emphasize his reduced hours, the fact that he was banned from anything involving a scalpel. And the Chief would. He'd do that. Because he was nosey and intrusive, and when it came to Derek and Meredith, he never seemed to recognize personal boundaries.

Derek stood, brushing his sweaty palms against his scrubs. He pulled his jacket on and hooked his penlight and stethoscope inside his breast pocket. The Chief could find him if he wanted to talk logistics about running the neurosurgery department, or signing off of disability leave, or any of the numerous things that didn't involve asking Derek how he felt or if he was really ready.

He tore through the halls, feeling the rushing heat of roaring blood overwhelming the skin on his face. Every time he passed someone in the hall, they would look up and smile and give him a huge welcome back greeting. A greeting that he didn't want. He didn't want to be an event.

It made his hair feel too short and stupid. It made him wonder if he was still walking a little funny. It made him want to avoid talking, because if people were already scrutinizing his presence that much, surely, they would notice he was very slow on the uptake. Rapid-fire subject changes flummoxed him, even with Meredith, though she took great care to never make a big production out of repeating herself or clarifying the babbling brook of words that sometimes spilled from her lips.

He arrived at the haven of his office, panting at the exertion of dodging everyone and everything possible. He slumped against the door as he shut it, trying to ease the thump, thump, thump-thump-thump of his heart as he hovered in the darkness. His fingers found the bridge of his nose, and he rubbed his grip up and down his skin, trying to ease the tension. When he opened his eyes after a long, quiet set of minutes, the room felt cooler against his skin. His heart wasn't outpacing the tick of the analog wall clock. His limbs felt a little less shaky.

He flipped the lights on, and everything spiraled out of his control again.

He let his gaze linger on his diplomas hanging from the wall, trying to ignore the rest of it. And then he sighed, letting the stale air of his office fill his lungs. Familiar. Even this far away from patients, the sharp scent of antiseptic managed to work its way through the air vents. The manila scent of paper laced underneath everything else drew his gaze to the desk. Dustless and clean despite his long neglect of it. The paperwork he'd left for himself before his departure for Connecticut still sat a foot high in his inbox. After he soaked that in, he let himself cope with the rest of it.

Balloons. Streamers. Cards. Get well. Welcome back. Flowers. The You're-Really-Sick fairy had vomited all over the room.

He sat at his desk, letting his fingertips brush along the cool grain of wood. In the soft light, it gleamed, and he could see a vague ghost of his outline in the lacquer. His hair stuck up, straight and scattered. It was too short to weigh itself down against his scalp. Too short for the mop of curls he was used to. He drew his palms back against his scalp. His hair flattened and sprang back up, and all the gesture did was remind him his skull wasn't an even curve anymore.

He could feel it. The piece of bone Dr. Weller had carved out of it and wired back on. There was a slight depression that would probably remain for years. The soft gnarl of his scar left a knick in the skin. He wondered what Meredith thought of the lack of symmetry when they made love, and she tore at his hair. She never mentioned it.

Really, aside from her self-proclaimed tendency to mother hen every once in a while, she ignored his illness. Ignored it in a way that was somehow mindful of it, but never focused on it. He never felt scrutinized with her. And he never felt oddly overlooked. She was considerate in a way that didn't make him feel overly considered, but she was never oblivious when he needed a break or a moment or… something. He was all right with that. When that was the only fanfare he received, he could be sick, and it didn't bother him so much.

The get-well cards and smiles and welcome backs and staring. Those bothered him. And then he couldn't be sick. It was unacceptable. Which only drove the frustration deep into his gut like a serrated, twisting knife. It was unacceptable, but there was absolutely nothing he could do to fix it except wait. And hope. And be sick.

He stared at the door for a moment. Then he picked up the first card, feeling more like it was a bamboo shoot under his fingernail than an expression of sympathy. The nurses. Smiley faces. Hearts. Loopy signatures. Get well! Hope you're feeling better! Come back soon! The next card was from the neurosurgery department. All of his employees except Dr. Weller had signed it. More of the same. Get well, get well, get well.

Get well.

Had Meredith known about this? He wondered if they'd tried to ambush her at work with all of this stuff, stuff to take home to him. He doubted she would have felt comfortable throwing out all of it. It wasn't hers to throw away. Well, it was. But she was Meredith, and it probably wouldn't have occurred to her that the concept of his stuff and her stuff, as far as he was concerned, was sort of melding into a vastly more amorphous their stuff. But she knew him. And he also doubted she would have brought it home for him had she known. But she wouldn't have left it… Like this. On display. Everywhere. Obtrusive.

He bopped a few of the balloons out of the way. They'd sagged as the helium had slowly left them, and they hung low in the room. But he didn't want to deal with them. Not right then. They settled against the far wall as their lazy dance slowed and stilled.

He reached forward and pulled his stack of paperwork to the center of his desk, sighing. Charts. Proposals. Budgets. His head was spinning by folder number three, barely an hour later. The text started blurring in and out, and the space behind his eyes began to throb as he forced himself to read and write and focus. Focus. FOCUS. He leaned forward on the desk, plunging his elbows against the hard wood, and jammed his fingers against his eye sockets, trying to relieve the pressure, but nothing helped. Nothing would help.

Broken, broken, broken.

He slammed his hands down, almost reveling in the pain that shot up to his elbows, distracting him from the mess in his head, and he wheeled his chair back, standing up. He'd always been shitty at paperwork. Always. He hated it even when his head wasn't pounding.

It drove him out, out, out, like a guilty spot. Out of his office. Back to the wolves.

Still overwhelmed with the urge to duck and cover, he found himself in the gallery, watching Meredith performing a simple laparoscopic gallbladder removal. It was. Simple. Barely a forty-minute procedure, if that. The gallery was empty, which made him sigh with relief. The surgery wasn't exactly a complicated, groundbreaking, or interesting one. Interns were, no doubt, out hunting down the fascinating and bizarre. Cardio, neuro, plastics. Flaming hearts. A pickaxe in a brain. Cheerleaders with burns on their asses. Not gallstones.

But Meredith was flying solo, which wasn't so simple. Not for a brand new resident. He watched her fingers, watched the subtle way her body shifted as her arms moved. She was wearing the white scrub cap he'd bought her. The one with the sprawl of lavender sprigs. Tiny, leftover curls and twists of sun-kissed hair poked out at the nape of her neck where the cap ended in a graceful purple tie. He found himself leaning forward, elbows pressed into his knees, a small smile lazily stretching across his lips as he lived vicariously through her, imagined his own hands doing the work of hers. She really would make an excellent neurosurgeon when it came time to commit to a specialty. She had the finesse and the focus and the drive to be brilliant.

When she finished, she looked up and caught his eyes. Even despite the mask over her mouth, he could read the smile bursting across her face from the way her gray irises sparkled and the subtle wrinkles of skin around her eyes. After a cute little wave that had everyone looking up at him, she turned back and wandered out of the room to scrub out, and he found himself wandering again, no interest in watching the scrub nurses sterilize the room for the next procedure.

It was replaying Meredith's surgery in his mind, over, and over, and over, that finally drove him out of his anxious funk and pushed him to be productive despite the claw of worries in his gut. He wanted it. He couldn't cut, but he wanted to do something. He could still be a damned doctor. He could. And the prospect of going back to his still mountainous pile of paperwork sent a warning pulse of throbs through his head.

The clinic bustled with activity. Every single bed had someone in it. Dr. Bailey stood at the center desk, shuffling through a pile of charts with a deep frown on her face. Something drew her attention up from her notes, and her gaze found him, standing, sheltered in the shadow of the doorway. Half in, half out. Unsure. Hesitant.

"Well," Dr. Bailey said, "Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to pick up a chart and help?" Her words were shocking and sharp, though her gaze was soft and warm, as though she were trying to come off prickly as always, but, really, was just happy to see him.

He stood in the doorframe, unmoving, muscles clenched and stiff. "Hi," he said. He felt heat rushing to his face. Hi. Hi? That was it? That was all his battered neurons could come up with? Hi?

Walk. Walk into the room and be a doctor. Be a cocky, know-it-all surgeon. Walk. He forced himself toward the desk. He tore his fingers through his hair as he came to rest against his elbows next to her and leaned. "How can I help?" he asked, forcing the words past his seizing lungs and vocal cords.

Dr. Bailey smiled again. She held four charts off the desk for him in a fan of yellow. "I've got a broken toe, a scalp laceration, the stomach flu, and mild abdominal pain that might be appendicitis. What would you like?" she asked. Her voice was deep and meaningful, full of honey rich intonations and seriousness, as though the cases she'd offered him included a cordotomy, a hemispherectomy, an undiagnosed brain tumor… Her brown eyes peered at him, irises ticking back and forth as she took in his expression and catalogued his reaction. To her, it didn't matter. Every patient, from one with a splinter to one with a sucking wound, was important. She wasn't just trying to bolster his feelings of self worth.

"I'll take the scalp laceration. She's hot," said a familiar, deep voice. Derek looked up, clamping down on the little flutter of startle that gripped his heart. Mark had pushed through the doors like a wraith, unseen, and he was close and breathing and abruptly hovering there in Derek's space.

Mark made a grab for the second chart from the left, but Dr. Bailey yanked it away and handed it to Derek while she glared at Mark. "We don't take patients because they're hot, Dr. Sloane," she growled. "What are you doing here? We didn't call for a plastics consult."

Mark shrugged. "I'm volunteering," he said with a Gallic shrug. He settled into a relaxed pose, breathing for a moment, and then his body flashed forward in a movement reminiscent of his quarterback blitzing days. It was a movement that, for Derek, had always meant pain. And landing on his back with the breath knocked out of him. Wheezing. With veritable cartoon stars circling lazily overhead. Mark had always been bigger.

_Derek, stop falling over. People on the football team don't fall over unless I slam into them. You're not helping me practice._

_That… That wasn't… That wasn't slam… Slamming?_

_No…I'm not trying to kill you, man. I'm trying to practice my lunging._

_See? This? This is why… This is why I swim._

_Swimming is for pansies._

_You say that, now. Wait until… this summer… Ow. Wait until this summer when I'm a lifeguard saving helpless babes in bikinis._

_Dream on, man. I get cheerleaders year round. Now, get up._

_Damn it, Mark, I just caught my breath._

_Get over it, man. State finals are in two weeks!_

Derek shifted backward in a reflexive but trained maneuver, quickly enough to make his ankles protest as they caught his balance for him and wailed at the injustice of the abuse. The flutter of startle pulsed into a fully accelerated throb as Mark feinted forward with a grasping claw for the chart Dr. Bailey had given Derek. "You don't want a scalp laceration, do you?" Big. Big person. Big person who liked to tackle. Derek flinched, only to flush with embarrassment as the movement stopped short of its prize, and Mark grinned like a little kid. His juvenile expression screamed, "psyche!" But it was enough.

Enough to loosen Derek's precarious hold on anything resembling okayness.

Derek clutched his fingers around the chart, trying to ignore the pain as halted circulation left his knuckles whitewashed and bloodless. His heart, still thumping over the sudden, startling intrusion, refused to calm. He swallowed thickly against his tongue, but he wouldn't allow himself to close his eyes and recover. That was a sign that he wasn't fine. And he was. He was fine. And he could do this. He could do a medical case easy enough for an intern barely out of med school. He fucking could. And he could deal with Mark. He'd grown up with Mark. Mark hadn't grown up. It was a simple act of using his memory. He could do that. A single moment of sensory overload was not going to send him to his knees. He wouldn't let it.

"You never volunteer," Derek snapped, his emotions suddenly crackling like a livewire. He could do this. He could. He could be a normal human being again.

"See?" Mark said, the corner of his lip twitching. Annoyed. He was annoyed. What right had he to be annoyed? Because Derek wasn't playing? They'd just barely gotten to the point where they could talk without yelling. That didn't fucking warrant playing.

Did it?

"My services were long overdue," Mark continued.

"Right," Derek replied. "I don't need a babysitter."

_But Mom said you're not supposed to be out here. It's cold._

_I don't care what Mom said. _

_But you were just at the hospital cuz you were too hot._

_So, being cold should be good, then._

_But... If you can get too hot, I think you can get too cold. Right?_

_Dad's the best doctor in the world. And he didn't tell me to stay inside. I don't care._

_Dad's dead, Derek._

_Go away._

_No. What're you making?_

_A snowman. Or a fort. Or maybe both._

_Okay. Can I help?_

_Yeah. _

Mark's eyes narrowed, and his shoulders straightened. He seemed bigger as he unfurled himself from his slouch, a slouch that hadn't been obvious until it was missing. Before Derek stood Mark from the tips of his toes to the crane of his neck, straight and pluming. Like a preening peacock. "You know, Derek," Mark snapped. "Just because my life happens to intersect with yours today doesn't necessarily make it about you. I'm volunteering in the clinic today. Get over it, man."

Derek narrowed his eyes in return, trying to ignore how much larger his opponent was. Mark had always been bigger. There was nothing new there. And Derek refused to be intimidated. He refused to be sick. "Mark…" he hissed.

Mark crossed his arms over his chest in a defensive posture. The muscles of his forearms and biceps rippled with tension. He opened his mouth to reply, but the words that sliced the air between them were the human equivalent to machine gun fire.

"Do you fools need to take this outside?" Dr. Bailey snapped.

Derek frowned. "No."

"Good," Dr. Bailey said, all friendliness gone from her tone. She gestured with a flick of her palm at the room around them. "I don't know if you two noticed, but we have no spare beds today, and the waiting area is stuffed. I damned well don't need to be wasting my time stitching up your sorry asses when you clobber each other for the sake of testosterone."

"Sorry," Derek replied, unable to stop the smile that ripped across his face. Dr. Bailey was yelling. At him. Dr. Bailey was yelling at him, and she didn't care that she was yelling, or that it was at him. "We'll be good," he added as a hint of his usual snark limped back into to the fray like a long lost sparring partner.

His lips twitched. Mark stared at him like he was high on something. Derek didn't care. The smile stuck, and Mark deflated from his threatening posture as he wheeled around to face Dr. Bailey with Derek, shoulder-to-shoulder. She glared, silent, eyebrows raised, her neck craned back to meet their eyes. Mark, whose expression switched to one of conspiratorial, eye-sparkling glee, grunted when Derek slammed his elbow into Mark's ribcage. "Yeah," Mark said, quickly recovering. "We'll behave."

Dr. Bailey's eyes widened. "You'd better behave," she snarled. "You're grown men, not a pair of two-year-olds fighting over a stupid matchbox car. Now, go do something productive like heal someone. Or get out of my clinic."

"Yes, Ma'am," Derek said. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark gave a jerky salute and pulled one of the three remaining charts from the stack without further complaint.

Derek stared down at the chart in his hand as he took a deep, cleansing breath. Dr. Bailey had loose, casual script that, unlike a lot of doctors he knew, was actually legible after about twenty seconds of intense concentration. He forced his eyes to interpret and assemble until he felt like the tendons in his neck would snap, but everything coalesced on schedule. Not delayed. Twenty seconds. Just like it always had. He couldn't stop the little vocalized sigh that slipped out between his lips. Relief. Relief tore down his spine and reverberated through his body with a shiver of triumph.

And then it came to a crashing halt when he actually read, instead of just realized he could read.

Candy Kane. Seriously? He squinted at Dr. Bailey's writing and sighed. Candy Krane. That was a little more like it. He looked up and saw the woman sitting on bed two. She was a platinum blonde, and she looked exactly like a Barbie doll. Exactly. Complete with gaudy eye shadow, a clueless, vacant expression, a pencil-thick waist, and an explosion of breasts that had to be the cause of some major back problems. Perhaps Candy Kane would have been more appropriate, after all. Seriously…

A small trickle of blood snaked down Candy Krane's temple from behind her hairline. She daintily held a small white tissue against her skin, but every few moments, she'd lift it away and frown, first at her manicured nails – two were chipped -- and then at the blood saturating the tissue. Her voluptuous lips would quiver, she'd nip at herself, and the whole process would start again as she would put the tissue back against the wound.

Derek schooled his expression, trying to tuck his mirth away. It wasn't really that funny. She was bleeding. Bleeding wasn't funny. Despite her stupid name and her cartoonish features. A vague, snarling whisper of thought wound behind his eyes. Superficial hypocrite. Walk. Walk over and be a doctor. Be a cocky, know-it-all surgeon.

He took three steps, only to flinch as a low, deep voice hissed in his ear, "Let me take this one, man. Please?" Another of Bailey's charts slammed into his field of view, making him twitch. Mark pulled it away. The skin around Mark's eyes ticked with apology, as if he suddenly realized that Derek might not be entirely okay with flashing colors and quick intrusions. But he said nothing apologetic. Only, "Trade me?"

"Hi," the woman said when she saw that Derek and Mark were approaching her. Her face brightened, and her lips peeled back in what Derek could only classify as the ditziest expression of joy he'd ever seen. "I'm Candy." Her gaze lingered on Mark, who crossed his arms again in a stance far from intimidating. It was more of a look-at-me, I-have-biceps-and-a-washboard-stomach pose.

Derek bit back on the little bit of bile that welled up in his mouth.

"You certainly are," Mark replied.

Derek rolled his eyes. "You're kidding me."

"You have a woman, and your stitches suck," Mark stated. "Take broken toe guy."

"I have a…" Derek spluttered. Candy watched them with a nodding, understanding expression, as if the conversation was a deep, world-altering one. Derek gripped the chart and flapped a useless palm in her direction. "Mark, she's a patient! And my stitches don't suck!"

"Everyone's stitches suck compared to mine," Mark said. He smiled and stuck his hand out. His fingers wrapped around hers, and she licked her lips. "Candy, I'm Dr. Sloane, a world-renowned plastic surgeon," he said before gesturing lazily at Derek. "You wouldn't want this guy messing with that perfect face. Would you?"

"Perfect face?" Candy whispered, her expression dreamy as she leaned forward, her stare a captive victim of Mark, ladies' man.

Derek rolled his eyes. "My stitches do not suck."

"Yes," Mark replied, ignoring him. "Your eyes caught me from across the room."

She gasped, bouncing a little on the stretcher. Her chest jiggled with her excitement. "Really?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Mark," Derek said.

"Gentlemen!" Dr. Bailey snapped.

Mark didn't have the decency to look ashamed. He grinned, a shrug sloughing off his massively emphasized shoulders. He held out a palm for Ms. Krane's chart. Derek glared for a long moment.

You're just upset she isn't drooling for McDreamy, a low, dangerous voice said. Be a fucking doctor and stop moping about your fucking head trauma. This is pathetic.

Broken.

Derek traded charts with Mark, trying to ignore the claw of defeat that wound around his heart. Mark. Always winning. Always taking. Always…

_Derek Shepherd! What are you doing out in this snow?_

_It was my idea,_ Mark had confessed. _We're making a snowman. See?_

"Enjoy your future syphilis," Derek added to Candy as he surrendered and turned to bed three, to the man Mark had so aptly named broken toe guy.

"Hello," Derek said as he left Mark to his wiles and approached an older, graying man, probably in his fifties. "I'm Dr. Shepherd." It felt good to be saying that again. Dr. Shepherd. Good. The man stared at him with respect, not curiosity or expectation that something might be off. That felt nice, too.

"Enrique Hernandez," the man said, a Spanish-lilt to his voice. They shook hands, and Derek instructed him to lie back against the bed as Derek pulled up a rickety exam stool and sat down.

"So, how did this happen?" Derek asked. He removed the man's sock and felt along the line of bone in the man's middle toe. Definitely a fracture. The skin where the toe connected to the foot had turned a blackish color, and he could feel a vague, hairline disconnect under the skin where a strong, straight line should have been. Enrique winced as Derek's finger met a tender spot.

"Mi esposa," the man said, panting. "My wife."

Derek raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the shrieking giggle that erupted from Candy as Mark said something charming. "Your wife broke your toe?"

"Oh, no, Dr. Shepherd," Enrique said. "But she went shopping. It was either kick her, or kick the bag full of basura she brought home. And I would never kick my wife. She buys muchos libros. Books. The bag was hard, I'm afraid."

Derek grinned as he leaned back. "Well, Mr. Hernandez, your toe is definitely broken. There's not much we can do for that except tape it up. I would like to get an x-ray, though, just to make sure you haven't damaged your foot. That's a little more serious. You'd need a cast."

Derek scribbled the x-ray order and his signature on the chart. That hadn't been so bad. That had been… Well… That had been easy. He swallowed thickly, marveling that his head didn't hurt, his eyes didn't feel like they were straining, and the endless feeling of being stared at and judged had receded in the wake of everything else.

Being a doctor. It was a good feeling. Even if he was only fixing broken toes. Enrique Hernandez knew nothing about Dr. Derek Shepherd. And so he didn't wonder why Derek had chosen his particularly unattractive, spikey haircut, or why a world-class neurosurgeon would be in a clinic, fixing busted toes, or why Derek's eyes lingered on his charts a few seconds longer than most doctors as he tried to fill them out coherently.

It was a nice feeling. Anonymity. Safety.

Dr. Derek Shepherd could be a doctor there, and it was… Maybe it was okay. Maybe.

The door at the end of the clinic slammed back against its hinges, and the tiled floor squeaked as frantic feet tore across it. A blur the size of a person darted past, and the cool air buffeted Derek's hot skin as he flinched with the sudden movement, blinking, trying to soak it in and not look startled or out of place.

He was okay. He was. He was completely fine. He breathed. Fine.

"Where is the coyote?" Enrique said.

Derek turned to the man. "What?"

Enrique made a dismissive gesture with his palm, a bemused expression making his thin mustache twitch with mirth.

The blur skidded to a stop next to Mark. "Candy!" the blotchy-faced, brown-haired man shouted despite being barely three feet from his quarry. "Candy, oh, thank god. I was so worried."

"Steven!" she exclaimed.

Derek leaned forward on his stool. It squeaked. Mark glared at him. "Oh, are you her husband?" Derek asked, unable to stop his voice from dipping somewhere low and goading and snarky. A grin slipped across his face before he could stop it. Mark was bigger. But Derek had always considered himself wittier. If Mark wanted to play with his bestest buddy again, he'd learn to take a few verbal knocks.

Mark was the ogre. I stomp you!

Derek was the little cat with the sword and the boots.

Derek cringed when he realized the analogy he'd created. Okay, maybe not entirely that much wittier. Mark was smart, after all. He was just…

Blunt. He wasn't about finesse.

Steven blinked. "Oh, no, sir, I'm her tennis instructor."

"Did you get this playing tennis?" Mark asked Candy, gesturing to the cut on her temple.

She opened her mouth to reply, but Steven answered for her despite his breathless gasping. "No," he said. "She got that from my trellis."

"Your trellis," Mark repeated slowly.

"Yes," Steven said, nodding. "She had to climb out the window." He turned toward her and pulled her manicured hand between his palms. He kissed each knuckle like a badly acted Casanova. "Are you okay, baby? I was so worried when you fell."

"I'm fine," she assured him, bubbling and cheerful despite the blood still flowing freely down her face. "It was only a few feet. Did she see us?"

Derek snickered as Mark glowered and pulled a suture kit up next to his stool. Candy and Steven made goggling, flirty, fish-eyes at each other.

"No, I don't think so. I followed as soon as I could," Steven replied.

For a moment, Derek looked away. For a moment. "I'll find a nurse to take you to x-ray," he told Enrique as he scribbled some finalizing notes on his patient's chart.

He was happy. Happy that he'd managed to be a doctor. And happy that he'd managed a few jabs at Mark despite how unsettled and nervous he'd felt all day. He wasn't just a useless, brain-damaged freak taking blows. He was happy. And possibly okay.

But then his false security disintegrated into a pile of eroded dust. A blink. That's all it took, and he was back to being that guy. That guy with the broken head who couldn't think fast and couldn't handle changes with any amount of grace.

Broken, broken, broken.

First, Enrique's eyes widened. Then, behind Derek's shoulder, Steve blurted a frantic, "Candy!" The bed behind Derek started to squeak as something thrashed.

"Derek," Mark snapped. "Derek, she's seizing."

"What!" Derek exclaimed as he turned to find Candy on her back, her limbs flailing spasmodically.

"Seizing!" Mark exclaimed. Mark lowered the bed while he slung an arm across her chest to keep her from falling off the thin frame.

You're not supposed to do that, Derek thought vaguely. You're not supposed to restrain a seizure victim. He blinked, and the world froze into a muted series of distant thuds that could have been shouting. Dr. Bailey and the nurses swarmed, and Steven wouldn't stop yelling, but Derek could barely hear any of it.

He stared at the thrashing woman on the stretcher. Only moments ago, he'd been sniggering about her rack. And her dumb expression. And her stupid name. And the fact that Mark found her attractive. Mark found anything with a willingly receptive vagina attractive. But now she was seizing. She was seizing. And it didn't…

"We need some…" Derek stuttered, but his mind blanked, and a malignant sort of tabula rasa settled into the cracks like a weed, wiping clean the slate he'd been building. The progress he'd made toward normalcy bled out of his pores like sweat. He blinked as his muscles started to shiver. There was something. She… The drug name. What was it? It was simple. Simple, simple, simple. He scraped for it. It was there, but all he saw was twitching limbs and snarls of perfect blond hair, tangling against Mark's grip. Pheno. Something. "Some… Uh." Phenobarbital.

"Some Phenobarbital," Dr. Bailey interrupted. "Stat."

Hot anger swept down the back of his throat in place of the word he'd meant to offer. Phenobarbital. He knew that. He knew it. He knew it. Why couldn't he think straight when he needed to think straight? He blinked, his eyes starting to water as the woman's thrashing slowed, and she went into a post-epileptic, recovery state on her own. Sluggish and sleepy and unresponsive. That was normal. At least she hadn't gone status epilepticus. Cranial bleeds were nasty territory when seizures entered into the equation.

The nurses set up an intravenous line faster than he'd been able to think the simple word. Phenobarbital. That would keep her from any further seizing until they could figure out… Figure out what?

What was going on? She'd been lucid. She'd been fine. She'd had no indicators whatsoever, which is why he'd passed the clipboard off to Mark without much further protesting. Let him have his Barbie doll.

Stupid. Broken. Idiot.

A warm hand gripped his shoulder. "Derek?" Mark asked.

Derek flinched at the unexpected touch, swallowing. Get with it. Get with it. Be a fucking doctor. "Sir, can you describe the fall she took?" he asked Steven, who was hovering over his adulterous tennis student with a look of pure infatuation and nothing deeper. He stroked her arm and whispered.

He looked up. "She was only unconscious for a minute," he whispered.

"Unconscious!" Derek snapped. "You could have mentioned that."

"She got up!" the man protested indignantly. "I thought it was fine. Rose was yelling at me, so I forgot."

"You forgot she lost consciousness," Derek replied with disbelief. "You forgot?"

The man nodded. "I was flustered. She looked fine when I got here. I thought… I thought she was fine."

Derek leaned forward over the bed and peeled her eyelids back, checking her with the penlight he'd put in his pocket when he'd dressed. One pupil was blown. The other still responded to light. That was good. Well, better than it could have been. Seizures. A blown pupil. A period of lucidity that quickly deteriorated. A head wound on the temporal bone. He knew this. He knew it. Mark and Dr. Bailey were staring at him. He knew it. He knew, he knew. He sucked in a sharp, forceful breath and blew it out, trying not to see himself lying there, trembling like a leaf, stupefied and naked while a teary Meredith stood there, her palm covering her mouth as she struggled not to cry or throw up with distress.

He blinked.

_Please stay with me, Derek. I'm really scared._

"Well, she's not fine, sir," Derek snapped. "She very likely has an acute epidural hematoma. Send her to CT, right now." The nurses nodded, and pulled the woman away in a flurry of squeaking wheels and rumbling movement.

He turned to Steven. "How long ago since she fell?" he asked, trying to keep an iota of calm in the grips of his tone.

"I don't know," Steven said. "A few hours? It took a while to get here."

A few hours. At least that meant the bleed wasn't explosive. Then again, if it had been really bad, she'd be dead. Who was he kidding? Epidural bleeds were bad, regardless. And they generally reached peak size in six to eight hours. Which didn't leave them with a ton of time. One in five. That was the mortality truth he was looking at.

"She'll need emergency decompressive surgery immediately, or she's going to die," he stated bluntly. Mean. Why was he being mean? He wasn't mean. He had a great bedside manner. Everyone loved Dr. Derek Shepherd.

Steven blinked. "Die?"

"Yes. Die," Derek said. He turned. "I'm going to go up to—"

"Derek," Mark said softly behind him. You can't, his gaze said. You can't do that. Though he didn't utter the words.

A shiver tunneled down Derek's spine. "Right," he said, deflating as the whoosh of adrenaline left him tired and achy and nauseated. "Right. Page Dr. Weller."

Dr. Bailey nodded. "I'll just take Mr…."

"Zuckerman," Steven replied, his voice flat and blank.

Dr. Bailey nodded. "I'll take Mr. Zuckerman to the waiting room."

"But she was fine," Steven stated, the barest ghost of himself remaining in his voice. His lip quivered. He blinked, and a spill of salty tears plastered his face.

Dr. Bailey soothed him, rubbing his back as they walked away, leaving Derek and Mark in the empty space where the bed had been. The space where, twenty minutes ago, Mark had been flirting with a vacuous Barbie doll, and Derek had been pleased he could deal with a fucking broken toe.

_Can you speak at all? Please, Derek. Say anything. Anything, please._

"Derek?" Mark prodded.

For a moment, Derek stood, still and quiet, shivering like a volcano getting ready to explode. He clenched his fists until his knuckles hurt. He couldn't do this. Everything was loud, and bright, and fast, and he'd been slow for more than eight weeks, and he couldn't do this. He couldn't.

His throat hurt. He inhaled deeply through his nose. And then he left. Left the clinic. He couldn't stand there and have a nervous breakdown in the middle of the fucking room. People probably already thought the world of him. Phenobarbital. Fee-no-bar-bit-all. It wasn't fucking hard to say. He'd fucking stumbled all over it.

He slammed his palm against the door, making it into the hallway before the world blurred. He was sick. And he hated it. And he couldn't think. He was so tired of not being able to think. He almost would have preferred a tremor, or some sort of wrecked coordination issue that would make him stumble about like a fool. He could see those. It would be understandable that he was still not okay if he could just see something wrong with himself. Some visible reminder that he was cut up and not fine. Some visible reminder that would let his coworkers know that he wasn't a moron. He was just hurt.

A dry, ironic laugh ripped out from his lips.

He told his patients and their families all the time to take it easy. To not get frustrated. Just because they couldn't see the injury didn't mean it wasn't there.

What a fucking joke.

Don't get frustrated.

A goddamned joke.

He leaned his forehead against the wall and breathed, sucking down the scent of paint and cleaner and paper. His fingers slipped along the surface. There was nothing to grab onto and claw. Nothing at all. The world around him moved. Fast. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of the hospital. Keyboards clacking. Voices. Heart monitors. Footsteps. Wheels. It all moved so fast.

A large, warm presence filled the space behind him, wordless, breathing. A hand gripped his shoulder and squeezed. Firm. Full of life and support and things he'd missed since he'd left New York. The man behind Derek wasn't the man who'd screwed Addison in Derek's marital bed. He was the friend and the brother Derek had grown up with. And it made Derek hurt inside. This was the Mark he missed.

_Well, I'm grounded._

_For what?_

_For having the bright idea of taking you outside to build a snowman._

_I'm sorry._

_No, you're not. But it's okay._

"People are so fucking stupid, Mark," he said, his voice quivering with all the crap he wasn't letting loose. All the stuff that was twisting his vocal cords into knots. "That woman should have been in the ER. Not the clinic. And if you hadn't been so busy flirting with her, you know, you might have gotten a decent medical history."

"Derek, she had a little scrape on her temple, and she was completely lucid," Mark replied, no bite in his tone. No defensive snapping. "She had absolutely no indicators until she passed out and seized. I worked with you for years. I know a little about brains, too. It was nobody's fault."

Derek sighed. He leaned into the wall and breathed, low and loud. "I know. I know. I…"

"Derek, don't take this wrong, man," Mark said. "But I don't think you do know."

Derek leaned into the wall and sighed, unwilling to turn around. He held his eyes shut, reveling in the darkness behind his eyelashes and the skin of his eyelids. If he lifted his head, things started to spark, but if he dipped against the wall, things were… Not okay. But better. Nausea toiled in the back of his throat. What the hell was he doing?

"I need to take a break," he admitted softly. His voice sounded warbley and paper-thin. Like a crepe streamer trying not to succumb to a blast of hurricane wind.

"Okay," Mark said. No judgment. No condemnation. In that moment, Dr. Derek Shepherd was Dr. Derek Shepherd. And there was nothing fake or optimistic about it. It was just true. Because Mark? Mark had always been good at that. Not judging. Derek had never thought much about it before. "Do you--" Mark began.

"No," Derek said. "I don't need help."

He forced himself off the wall, wiping at his face and bloodshot eyes with his hands. He ripped his fingers through his hair and tried to straighten up, tried to look at the hallway again. Colors. Everything was so colorful. And loud. And awful.

"You know, Derek…" Mark said as Derek started to walk. "Addison. We're going on a real date this Saturday."

"What?"

"She knows I lied," Mark clarified.

Derek didn't look at him. "Oh."

"Look, man, my point is? You fix what you can. It's not everything, but that doesn't make you powerless," Mark said. "And I'm… Thanks. For talking to her."

"I didn't talk to her," Derek protested.

"Right, man," Mark said with a knowing smirk. "Because I told so many people about that."

"I didn't," Derek said. "You're just transparent. I'm sure she figured it out."

Mark let it go, though the expression on his face remained unchanged. He knew. "I'll finish up broken toe guy for you," he said. "You wanted him sent to x-ray, right?"

"Yeah," Derek answered, his voice quiet. "Thank you."

"No problem," said Mark. He turned on his heels and slipped back into the clinic without further words of wisdom, leaving Derek alone and shaky in the hallway.

Derek didn't know how he made it to his office. He closed the door behind himself and shut the lights off. He couldn't see the cards and the streamers and the balloons if the lights were off. He collapsed at his desk and sighed, trying to stop trembling, but it didn't work. He felt awful. And overloaded. And sick. And slow. And he just…

His fingers found the phone in the darkness. He pushed the numbers from memory, wincing as the sharp, bleeping sounds pierced the silence. He could remember lots of things when he wasn't trying to force it. When it wasn't critical. When he just wanted…

He sighed as he listened to the call go through, and then he hung up, letting his head fall down onto the desk. He gripped his arms around his stomach and sighed. His eyes fell shut, turning muzzy, vague darkness into midnight black. And he rested, trying to stop the churning and failing.

A soft knock struck the door. One. Two. Three, four, five. The noise hit his ears like a jackhammer in the silence, and he cringed. The door opened. A slice of light fell into the room, illuminating his haven.

"Derek?" Meredith whispered. "I got your page. Are you…" She gasped. He imagined that was the part where she actually focused on the pathetic form of him, plastered against his desk. His head was throbbing, and he wanted to throw up. Her feet shuffled across the floor like a whisper of promise. "Oh," she said, her voice deep and low. "The tuning fork thing again?" Her fingers slipped around his shoulders and chased down his back.

"It got bad," he muttered.

For a long moment, she was silent. The warmth of her fingers lifted away. He winced as he listened to her pull a chair across his floor. Then her body shimmied next to his, and he was in her grasp. "It's okay," she soothed. "The first day was bound to be like this."

"It got bad," he repeated, sobbing as his mouth found the crook of her neck and he inhaled her. Her fingers tunneled through his hair, and he sighed as she shushed him and rubbed his back like a wave.

"It was bad for me, too," she confessed. "The first day. When I… You know. It gets better. People look at you funny. But you're fine. Right? You swear you're fine. But nobody thinks you're fine. I cried in the closet when nobody was looking."

"You never told me," he whispered.

"We weren't us back then," she said. "We were weird pod people who were fine with the fact that I died. Except, really? It was our first day back. And we weren't fine."

"We weren't fine," he agreed.

He closed his eyes and rested against her in the darkness, letting her toiling fingers soothe him. She breathed softly next to his ear, her chin resting against his temple, and she petted him, silent, close, heart beating like a thunderstorm so close to his ear. He sucked in a shaky breath, and another, not bothering to wipe away the spillage from his eyes.

The sickness twisting in his gut slowed to a bleating, dying twirl of unhealthiness, and then receded, leaving him feeling quivery and hollow and spent. They were in a bubble. A safe, warm bubble that wrapped around him, told him he was still breathing, still alive. That was a huge victory. Breathing. Being alive. Her calm stroked him, and he felt the tension fleeing, sinew by aching sinew, until he was a pile of breathing and alive, and that was it. He didn't have thoughts, let alone worries. She was soft and warm and his, except he was completely hers. But that was okay.

"You want to get something to eat?" she whispered after a long, long time. "It's lunchtime. Sort of. And you should… You should try to eat something. You'll feel better. I think."

"Okay," he said. His voice was barely recognizable, dark and low and tired. Strained, but… So much better.

He untangled himself from her, thumping against the desk as he propped himself up into a standing position that sent the room spinning around him like a top. He blinked as his head adjusted to the change in elevation. Maybe he was a little hungry. Low blood sugar.

"I'd offer you mine," she said. "But all I've got is one of your crappy granola bars."

"They're not crappy," he replied with a frown. "They're healthy. There's a difference. But they're not lunch, Meredith."

She shrugged. "I'm not a freaking chef, Derek. Healthy. Crappy. They should be synonyms. Nothing worth eating is healthy. But it was either granola or skip."

He rubbed her back. "You make a shameful doctor, Mere. Just shameful."

"If I stroke out or blow up a hundred pounds, then we'll talk, buster," she replied. She slapped his stomach lightly. "Until then, you've got nothing aside from your sexiness as legs to stand on."

He didn't have much of an argument for that. She was thin. Almost too thin. He gave her a weak smile as they left his office. She kept her palms flat against his waist, walking with him in a vaguely backward thing reminiscent of when they'd gone shopping for the dinner for her stepmother. He smiled at the warmth, feeling so much better. The hallway had receded to its normal ugly peaches and whites. Noises weren't so sharp and painful.

They found a table in the corner of the cafeteria away from prying eyes and settled down with salads. She'd gotten one for herself after only mild argument that she wasn't hungry, and that anything other than ceasar salad was healthy, and therefore bad. He'd grabbed plenty of packets of fat-filled, gloppy Ranch dressing for her, which had seemed to appease her.

She cradled her chin on her palms and watched him, eyes sparkling.

"What?" he said, smiling as he shoveled a forkful of salad into his mouth. The lettuce wasn't crunchy, or in any way tasty. But it was food, and he didn't feel sick. Which was good.

She shrugged. "I'm glad you paged me. I sort of thought you might not."

"I feel better," he replied, honest.

"I can tell," she said, a smile caressing her lips.

Derek jerked in surprise when a third tray slammed down next to him. He looked up, startled, as Dr. Weller settled into the seat next to him. His heart wrenched, and for a moment, he thought he would lose everything again, but it settled. He was with Meredith. The cafeteria was buzzing. But nobody was staring at him or judging or whispering about his fucked up head.

He was okay.

"Ms. Krane will be fine," Dr. Weller said without preamble. "I got everything cleaned up with a burrhole. It barely took an hour. Nice save with the epidural hematoma diagnosis. If that had been some intern in the clinic, it would have taken at least an extra hour to figure out what was wrong. And she would be dead. Most new people miss that lucidity indicator."

Dr. Weller picked up his plastic utensil packet and tore it open with his teeth. His gold watch glinted in the light. No hi. No how are you. No welcome back. It was if Derek had never left. They were just two colleagues discussing a case.

Derek stared at Dr. Weller, swallowing thickly around his bite of salad. "Oh. Um. No problem," he said, his voice fluttering awkwardly. He cleared his throat. "She's in recovery?"

"Yep," Dr. Weller said as he drove his plastic fork into his plate of spaghetti. The food made a gross, mushy sound. Hospital food wasn't the most delectable. "So, did you catch the game last night?" Dr. Weller asked, moving with nonchalant ease onto simpler subjects.

Derek frowned as he let his brain shift gears. Hockey. He could do hockey. He'd watched the game with rabid interest last night. It was pre-season. Teams were figuring out where they stood with all the fucking new rules. Bettman, the commissioner, had really jerked the NHL into disarray. "Too many penalties," Derek judged. "It slowed the game down. And the refs were very obviously biased Bostonians."

"Even if the Rangers could have stayed out of the penalty box, it wouldn't have saved them," Dr. Weller said. "The Bruins are going places this year, man. I know it."

Derek snorted. "Not likely."

Dr. Weller rolled his eyes. "Please," he said. "The Bruins don't need referees to save them. The Rangers can't win on their own."

"Bullshit," Derek snapped. "If the refs weren't blind, the game would never have gone into OT. All those holding calls? Ridiculous."

"Well, the Bruins weren't holding." Dr. Weller smirked.

"Neither were the Rangers!" Derek protested, slamming his fork down. Really, that game had been such bullshit. The refs had been a bunch of power tripping, Boston-loving bastards. "And the NHL does not need shootouts. What the hell was wrong with a tie? Or even OT?"

"Shootouts sell," Dr. Weller said with a shrug. "And you wouldn't mind so much if you'd won."

"I would, too, mind! It's the principle of the thing," Derek said. "But if Jagr plays well this year, and they can adjust to the new rules, this could be our year."

Meredith coughed lightly, and Derek finally had the presence of mind to remember the love of his life was at the table with them. "Was that English?" she said, her eyes wide. "Who are you, and what have you done with Derek?"

"Oh, man," Dr. Weller said. "He hasn't gotten you into hockey yet? You should take her to a game, Derek."

"A game," Meredith said flatly. "A hockey game?"

"Yes," Derek said. "It's that sport with sticks and a puck. There's ice involved. I was watching it yesterday."

Meredith shrugged. "I know you were watching it yesterday. You did the guy thing."

"The what thing?"

"The guy thing. The thing where you forget about me."

"I didn't forget about you," he protested.

"Fine," she snorted. "What did I say when you started spitting at the television?"

"I wasn't spitting," he said. "I was… Observing. That the refs sucked."

Dr. Weller choked on a forkful of food. He washed it down with a gulping chug of his tea.

"Observing," she replied, her eyes sparkling. "Right. What did I say?"

"You said something?"

"Exactly," she said.

He blinked as intense guilt ripped through him. He really hadn't… When Meredith spoke, he listened. All the time. That was his thing. Right? She got annoyed at him for it. For always remembering what she said down to the tiniest detail and intonation. Then again, she hadn't lived with him in a small trailer, unable to escape the television before. Being ignored in a small space was a lot different than being ignored in a house, where there was plenty of other stuff to do.

"Sorry," he muttered.

She shrugged, a smile puckering her lips. "No, no. Go on. You're cute when you're vehement."

"Cute," he said. "I'm cute?"

"Mmm," she purred. "Very."

Dr. Weller laughed. "I should introduce you to my wife, Melinda. You two can commiserate while we observe next time." He gave the word observe air quotes as he leaned back in his chair.

Derek folded his arms, but Meredith laughed instead. "You know, I think I'd rather just learn the rules and observe with you." She also gave the word air quotes.

Dr. Weller raised an eyebrow. "If you don't want her, Derek, I'll take her."

"No," Derek replied. "She's definitely mine."

Meredith grinned. "No, you're mine."

"I suppose that's true," he admitted. "The next game is on ESPN on Friday. I'll talk you through it."

"Okay," she replied.

Derek grinned, leaning back in his chair. Meredith grinned back. Dr. Weller took a slurp of his tea. "Well," Dr. Weller said, shoving his chair back. "I have to run. But I have some charts to run by you later, Derek. And a really weird case I want your opinion on."

"Stop by my office," Derek said.

"Will do," Dr. Weller said over his shoulder as he departed.

"Meredith?" Derek said.

She leaned forward. "Yes, Derek?"

"Will you help me clean out all the goddamned balloons in my office? Dr. Weller will need a place to sit."


	54. Chapter 52

**Author's Notes: After finishing off 13k words total of Christmas-y stuff tonight, I decided I'm splitting the part up. Christmas is going to be three parts. It just got to be too long, and things kept evolving. I arrived at a point last night where I just stopped and said, "That right there? Chapter end." So... Half of Christmas Eve has been bumped to part 53. Part 52 will comprise the rest of Christmas Eve. Christmas Day will occur in part 54. Parts 53 and 54 might be vignette-ish length, or at least not 10k words, but we'll see where things take me. I've been known for being wordy ;p There will be one more part after Christmas before the wedding unless it suffers the expansion Christmas did. Suffice it to say, there will be an OD on MerDer Christmas-y stuff. My gift to y'all for sticking with me for so freaking long. I really hope you enjoy all of this. I'm very happy with it so far!**

**Thanks so much for all the lovely comments on the last chapter! I will be responding to them as soon as I can :)**

* * *

They approached the waiting rental SUV as a twisting, tripping mass of limbs and luggage and dog. Derek hobbled, off balance, with the leash that tugged against his knuckles in one hand, the handle of the very unwieldy crate they'd bought for transport clutched in the grip of the other hand. The two-year-old yellow Labrador they'd adopted almost two months before trailed behind Derek. The dog's tail whipped back and forth with a regular, energetic swish, swish, swishing rhythm – or thump, thump, thumping, depending on the vicinity of walls or other solid objects -- as he panted, round, chocolate-colored eyes wide, expression cheerful. Meredith trundled their shared suitcase behind her as its wheels squealed in protest. Her shoulders ached as their two carryon bags dragged down on her shoulders. 

Quin let loose an excited yip at the strange new friend towering before him, lowering his dark nose to sniff at its black tires. And then he licked them to express his approval.

"Quin, stop it," Derek said, his tone strained and not entirely happy. He looked… Frazzled. His newly replenished curls flew loose and unkempt in a torrent about his head, and his pallor hovered in the grip of an alabaster color that didn't quite suit him. His rumpled, wrinkled shirt poked out from underneath his dark sweater at the waistline and sleeves, completing the ensemble of I-don't-travel-well. Derek's fingers wrapped more tightly around the leash, and he pulled back, adding, "Tires are not food." He quirked a weak smile at the dog. "If I were you, I'd rethink the whole rubber fetish. The girl dogs will think you're a little weird."

Quin did not agree, but quickly lost interest as he explored wherever his nose took him. Derek gave him a little leeway. The dog yapped again, looking back with a perplexed expression when Derek wouldn't let him loose any further.

It figured. The dog was freaking ecstatic about the adventure. Derek was not. Meredith just felt tired, though a little excited. Family. Family thing. She was going to get a chance to do it right this time.

She wandered to the driver's side of the large white Expedition and grabbed the keys out of the ignition to pop the trunk. Derek lugged the big carrier into the trunk and came around to relieve her of their luggage. She smiled as his fingertips brushed her shoulder and curled around the nylon strap that kept her duffel bag airborne. His lips twitched, and the ghosted, nervous look on his face fleeted, replaced by a hint of pleasure.

The trip hadn't been nearly as bad as it could have been. This had been the first time they'd flown since the return trip to Seattle. Meredith had gone onto the plane clutching Derek's waist, white-knuckled and ready for the ride to be a veritable Hell. He'd refused to take anything beforehand for his nerves. Dilantin was enough to trip his brain on, he'd said. He didn't need more stuff circulating.

He hadn't needed it. His reaction to the flight had been a bit more severe than her first plane trip with him had been, but he'd been fine. Shaky and tense, but talking. Joking. Smiling, if a bit quivery. Derek-y.

She'd relaxed against his shoulder, and they'd flipped through a magazine together for a while before she'd nodded off to the rise and fall of his chest while his warm palm stroked her shoulder. She hadn't woken up again until the plane had thunked down onto the runway in what she had decided was the worst landing she'd ever experienced. One wheel had skipped onto the pavement and off again. The whole plane had bounced, leveled out again, and smacked down like a pile of bricks on wheels. Inertia combined with the hard press of the plane's brakes had sent her tilting forward in her chair, and when she'd finally taken a breath and looked around, she'd noticed Derek hadn't quite dealt with that so well.

But at least it had been over. He hadn't had to endure a five-hour trip in the gripping agony of too much tension, and as soon as he'd gotten off the plane ten minutes later, he'd been… Mostly okay again, if a bit shaken.

Really, after brain surgery, after all the crap that had happened, she'd been ecstatic he'd dealt with everything so well. They hadn't really figured out yet if he was having anxiety problems. Though he did when he needed to, he didn't like to talk about it very much, and it was hard to reconcile his understandable frustration over adjusting to the laggard pace of his healing with what could have been genuine nervous problems. The plane seemed to have proven he was indeed fine, though, for the most part.

"I'll drive," Derek said. He came around to the door and leaned against the weather stripping, his feet crossed at his ankles, cocky, self-assured, like he knew he'd win the argument before it even got past go. He smiled at her, eyes sparkling, and she sighed, caught in his adoring gaze. Melting. She was. Melt… Bad. Bad, Meredith. But… His color had returned, and he looked... Perfect. He looked perfect. And he was right. He would win this time. Not that she cared. Much. It wasn't even arguing. It was more of a collective… thing. A collection of…

Quin yipped as his gaze darted between the two of them. She reached down absently to rub his ears. His soft, velvet fur ruffled under her fingertips, but her attention refused to peel away from Derek, whose black sweater suddenly looked delectable to stroke. Or remove. Or both.

"You'll drive?" she countered, trying to contain the smile she felt tearing at her lips, because he was looking at her like he always did, and he really did seem fine, which was a relief all by itself, minus the looking. The looking that said he loved her in a soul-consuming way, it was wonderful, life was good, and she was the embodiment of his future. She was Meredith. She was Derek's Meredith, and whenever he looked at her like that, the world tended to drop away. She could never get over how flawless she felt whenever he drank her in that way. It was addictive, and even though he would win the collective non-argument of the day, she was definitely Queen of England in that moment. "You always drive," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "What if I want to drive?"

"I got my license back, you know," he said. "It's conducive to me driving." His eyes mischievously flicked to the keys as she jingled them in what she hoped was her best, seductive, stripper-like motion that didn't actually involve stripping. Purr. She wouldn't win. But she could try.

"I know. A month ago," she said. "You got your license back a month ago, Derek."

He shifted. "You try having me as your chauffeur for over three months. I promise, you'd really want to drive again."

She raised an eyebrow, leaning forward into the space where his scent lingered, spicy and male and… Hers. Closer. "Are you implying that I'm a crappy chauffeur?" she said in a low, sultry voice.

"Oh, no," he replied, his voice equally deep and dangerous. "You're an excellent chauffeur. I love it when you drive."

"Except you won't let me anymore unless it's a shopping cart," she managed as the heat began to crawl across her skin. The sweater. The sweater looked… "Or sex." She nipped at him, and he loosed a tiny, breathy, aroused chuckle that made her melt even more.

Their noses touched, and she breathed him in. Her arms wouldn't hold still anymore. She placed the flat of her palms against the plane of his stomach and ran them up over his shoulders in a quiet pet that made the space between them rustle. He breathed. His arms slipped under her shoulders, and she felt Quin nudging at her shins, but she couldn't bring herself to care. The dog's claws tapped on the pavement as he maneuvered back and forth, his tail thwapping at their legs while he tried to get their attention. He whined, but to no avail.

Derek won over Quin. Hands down. Well, usually. Except when Derek was being dumb. But the apologies made those times worth it. The keys loosened in her palm as Derek bent in to inhale her, pushing her throat back as he ran his lips against her skin. He felt good. He felt very good, and he seemed… very fine. Very… Very… Um. She felt the leash dig into her back as Quin yipped and tore a circle around them, and it brought her back from the brink of total dissolution.

She paused to realize they were in a parking lot. Their dog was staring at them in horror, his head cocked to the side, tongue fluttering as he panted. He wanted attention. What was this PDA nonsense? Disgusting. That's what. Except it totally wasn't disgusting. It felt rather nice, especially after five hours on a stupid, cramped plane full of stupid, talking people.

Derek's expression pulled back into a nonplussed smirk. "I'm still in the escape from Driving Miss Daisy phase of my recuperation," he said, and she couldn't help but snort as she regained traction with reality. He frowned, backing up to peer at her. "What?" he said.

"Nothing," she replied with a laugh. "I'm just trying to picture you in the backseat with a cute little hat and a scowl."

Though the twinkle in his eyes didn't wane, his frown shifted into a scowl just like the one she'd imagined, and she couldn't help but let loose a hearty laugh. The scowl deepened. "Give me the keys," he said, leaning forward against her body, reaching. His free hand snaked down the length of her arm, fighting for possession of her palm.

She sighed as his fingers brushed hers, only to step back at the last moment. "How long does this whole cars-are-great thing generally last?" she said. She jingled the keys. He peered at them. His tongue appeared between his lips, briefly. It was an expression of determination and frustration and… other things.

"I don't know," he said, stepping into her space again. His lips found her earlobe. "I'll let you know."

"You'll let me know when I can drive?" she countered, tilting her head to the side to give him more of her body. His fingers snaked through her hair. His warm palm slid against her cheek as he brought his grip forward to cup her chin.

"Yes, exactly," he murmured, his eyes hooded with distraction as his irises ticked back and forth, laving each crease of her skin with attention.

"How very male chauvinist of you or whatever," she said.

His whole body shivered, and she felt a perverse sense of glee when he took a step back and took several short breaths. She'd rattled him. He was… Maybe he wouldn't win. "Meredith…" he said, though it was more a sigh than a word.

"Derek…" she replied.

His voice found its purchase again as he blinked. "Keys."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes!" he said, and the dance of flirtation collapsed into desperate fruition when he crushed against her and swept the world away from her senses. His lips flattened against hers, his tongue parted her before she had a chance to say a word, and they melded. For a moment. In the parking lot. With the dog staring. People everywhere dodging heaped, melting snow piles. She just didn't care. It didn't even feel cold, and she didn't care that their coats were still in their suitcase. Their suitcase. Theirs. She… He tasted good. He smelled good. He was fine.

And he won.

The keys jingled as he took them from her nerveless grasp and pulled back. His face had flushed to a healthy pink, and his pupils had shifted from starkly clear to glassy.

"You cheating bastard!" she snarled.

He blinked, a perplexed look on his face. "Kissing is cheating?"

"It's totally cheating. It ranks with tickling. Lips off is the rule," she said.

"Tickling," he replied with a grin as he pulled open the back door of the Expedition, a smirk slowly replacing his befuddled, lingering arousal. She'd almost won, damn it. She'd almost… He slapped the seat. Quin hopped inside the car, yipped his approval, and pressed his nose against the glass as Derek closed the door. Derek turned to her, his lower lip pressed underneath his incisors in an expression of haughty, sexy, hungry consideration. He peered her up and down. "Hmm."

"Don't you start," she said.

"I guess I like cheating after all," he said. "More cheating, I say."

"And I say you suck," she replied. "I can't believe you stole the keys with a kiss."

"Yes, you can," he replied with a smirk as he settled himself behind the steering wheel. "Get in." As she walked around the car, glowering, she heard his voice, distant, continuing in her absence. He'd left the door open so she could hear. "And since when have there been rules? There weren't rules before. You won with a kiss last week. I think you're changing things up on me to keep me confused."

"I hate you," she said as she collapsed tiredly into the passenger side seat and yanked the door shut. She started fumbling with her seatbelt, only to stop and add in a considering tone, "And your stupid hair. I think you should get a handicap for that. Your hair. Being stupid, I mean."

His lip twitched as he turned the key in the ignition. Quin stuck his head between the seats to peer out the front window as the engine started with a rumble. Derek reached back and scratched the dog's head. "You love me and my stupid hair," Derek said.

She sighed, turning to him. "Well…" she began.

He looked sharply at her.

"Okay, okay," Meredith replied with a laugh. "I do," she agreed with a relaxed smile. "I really, really do. Usually."

He regarded her for a moment. His eyelashes lowered as his skin ticked, and the deep blue of his irises seemed fathomless in the grip of that moment. Lighter flecks of gray and cerulean snaked against the deeper tones, and she lost herself in them. She loved the way they turned almost black sometimes when it was dark.

"Usually being pretty much always," she added.

"Pretty much?"

"That's a majority, you know. I'd be happy if I were you."

He sighed, histrionics dragging his shoulders into a pronounced slouch. "I suppose the honeymoon is over."

She snorted. "The honeymoon hasn't even remotely started. We haven't even picked—"

"I love you, too," he replied, interrupting her. "And I happen to think your hair is stupid all the time, too, you know. Or maybe just brilliant."

"Brilliant smart," she began, "Brilliant radiant, or brill—"

He kissed her then. Not to distract or to win or to do anything other than say what he felt with something a little more substantial. She could tell from the reverential way he touched her, as if she were strong but fragile, iron wrapped in rose petals. As if he were grateful. And desirous. And worshiping. Not once did the touch show self-awareness. Only she was in the car. Only she was important.

"I really, really do," he added, whispering against her ear. His lips brushed her skin. He lingered against her, quiet and breathing, as if he could replenish himself simply by being close to her.

Quin nudged them with his cold nose, and they laughed as the moment dispersed like mist. She reached to ruffle the fur on his back. His tongue came out, and he licked her cheek, leaving wet warmth behind. She coughed with broken laughter as she wiped the spit from her face with the back of her palm.

"We really need to train him to share," Derek murmured as he pulled away.

"Yeah, we do," Meredith said with a snort. Derek put his arm over the back of the seat, pressed his foot down on the accelerator, and the vehicle began to crawl backward into the exit lane. "By the way," she said as he lifted his hands and let the steering wheel correct itself in a quick but controlled spin. "I'm driving to the airport on the way back."

His fingers flexed around the leather grip on the wheel. He quirked a grin. "Maybe."

"Yes!" she said.

"We'll see," he countered.

She puffed a breath out between her teeth. "Whatever," she said as she folded her arms over her chest and settled against the window to watch the rows of cars go by. Foggy breath snaked along the glass pane as she breathed.

"You okay?" he asked.

"About?" she said.

"Well… Christmas. And traveling with the dog. And seeing everyone again. I know it's a lot."

She let her lips quiver into a sort of grin thing that she hoped would be sufficient. "I'm more than okay, Derek. Honest. We couldn't have left him at a kennel. Not after just two months. And your family. Our… We… Our family. I want to see them again. I want to… I didn't do it right last time. I didn't… There's stuff that I need to ask and do and be. And you're… It's… You deserve to have some time with them when you're not ill or traumatized or whatever. Er… I mean."

"It's okay. I know what you mean," he stated simply. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me, too," she said, meeting his eyes as he fumbled to retrieve his license from his pocket. His eyes lingered on the glossy picture for a long moment. His thumb rubbed the laminate as though it were a precious metal, like gold or silver or the platinum that always hugged her ring finger. His lips twitched, and the skin around his eyes crinkled. Happy. He was happy. And fine.

"You're okay," she said, reaching across to add her own support to his moment.

"Yes," he replied, his voice deep and sure and… Derek. "Yes, I am." And then he rolled down the window to pass all the documentation to the lady at the parking lot gate. The exchange was quick. The lady compared the registration sheet with Derek's license, asked him gruffly if he needed directions, handed everything back to him, and sent them on their way.

The Expedition tilted back and forth, flinging them around as Derek navigated the vehicle over the anti-theft strip of spikes clawing up out of the ground under the shadow of the gate arm. Then they were free, and the trip began much like it had before, though Derek didn't offer any sort of sexy tour narration.

She'd seen it before. The bridge. The way the road slowly left the towering sprawl of New York City behind.

Leafless and dead for the winter, trees sprouted up behind the brief sprawl of muddy grass that ran along the road. Black, slushy remnants of the early winter storm that had abated two days before sat piled up against the shoulders of the road. The pavement hissed as the vehicle tore over it, the snow's wet, melting runoff creating a damp, slick surface. Derek stayed in the right lane, actually under the speed limit for once, despite his usual penchant for pushing the speed limits well into reckless territory, territory that, were he to be pulled over, would not get ignored no matter how much he smiled and looked sexy. Speeding. A remnant of the daring his motorcycle crash had ripped away from him, perhaps, strangely absent this trip, though she'd seen plenty of evidence his pedal pushing tendency had remained since he'd received the renewal for his license after his surgery. Concerned, she watched the way his fingers gripped the wheel, the way his jaw shifted, and the way his eyes gathered in the sights.

His irises and pupils twinkled with a subtle glee that had appeared the first time he'd gotten behind the wheel again and, for each subsequent trip in the car, had never abated. He wasn't nervous. This wasn't a war for him. He was just being safe.

That was fine.

_I remember_, he'd said as they'd settled into bed. She'd known what he'd meant before he'd explained. _I remembered at work today. You were there. But I was so nauseated I couldn't think straight. I tried. I tried so hard, Mere, and I couldn't get anything to work. Everything was spinning. I was frightened. Then the words stopped making sense, my skull was pounding, and it seemed easier to just… Give up._

She'd rested against the length of him, rubbing her palms against the ripples of his ribs. She'd wanted to think he was imagining things, making things up to fill a void that wouldn't ever fill again. Minor but permanent anterograde and retrograde amnesia after a severe head trauma was very common. Both of them had thought that his memories ending with the seatbelt click in the car and resuming in the hospital room where he'd stayed overnight had been the ultimate end to his recovering recollection. She'd been glad. Glad that he couldn't remember the rest of it. He hadn't said anything about it, but she had a feeling he'd been glad as well.

_I know the feeling_, she'd replied.

_Thanks for being there._

_You were there for me, too,_ she'd said. And that had been the end of it. He'd never spoken about it again, but she'd wondered. She'd always wondered if it was because he was genuinely okay now, or because he didn't want to deal with it. But she hadn't pressed it.

"Meredith, I love that you love me and all, and I know I'm ridiculously hot," Derek said, his tone playful, "But I think you've counted every stray piece of stubble I've got at least four times, now."

She blinked, broken from her musing. She flicked her gaze to the left and found Quin staring at her between the gap in the seats with an apologetic look of agreement. She'd been caught. Red handed. Guilty as charged and all that. "You're always on his side," she said to Quin as she petted him. "It's really not fair." She turned to Derek, who glanced at them every few seconds out of the corner of his eyes.

He smiled. "It's a guy solidarity thing," he explained. "But really, Meredith. I'm fine. I'm driving again. It's Christmas. We're going to see everyone. We have a dog. And you're here." He sighed. "There's really nothing that could make this more perfect for me." Silence fell into the space between them. The heater filled the air with a soft rush of air, and the road whooshed underneath them. "Plus," he added, "This SUV is huge. I doubt a deer would win in sudden death match."

Her mouth fell open. "I can't believe you just said that."

"Bambi gets it this time," Derek replied. "Not me."

"You're an ass," Meredith replied with a chuckle. "Deer hater."

"Hypocrite," he said.

"Not true. I've never tried venison. I don't know if I hate it."

"You're talking about serving it on a plate, and I'm the hater?"

"Yep," she replied.

"Okay, just so we're clear."

She smiled as Derek fumbled for the radio in the silence that followed. He navigated to a station with little hesitation, and his fingers adjusted the volume so that the sound was the barest hum in the background. Christmas carols. Some rock station playing Christmas carols. Christmas. She shifted her feet, ready to settle in for the trip, relaxing, wondering how exactly she was going to do this. The thing. The family thing. This was Christmas.

Christmas. With Derek's family. Their family. Christmas. With presents. And Christmas carols. And trees. And lights. And cookies. And people. Everywhere. Children. Santa. Candy canes. Wrapping paper. Mistletoe.

She'd never done the Christmas thing. Ever. Her mother had always worked on Christmas. Meredith would receive one or two small presents that night at dinner, maybe, but the mornings had always been eerily quiet, and her mother had never put up any tree. Or decorations of any kind. _Don't be silly, Meredith. Pointless things like decorations are just a time vacuum for the commercially brainwashed._

The week before, Meredith had been rather horrified when Derek had arrived home from his shopping trip on their day off just long enough for dinner. He'd gotten up after cleaning off his plate and cheerfully informed her that he was going to head to FedEx to ship all the presents to Connecticut ahead of time. All the presents. All. Presents. As in many. Many. Lots. She'd thought he'd come home empty-handed when he hadn't brought anything into the trailer with him.

_FedEx_, she'd snapped. _You bought enough that you need to FedEx it? I thought… FedEx? Really?_

_Well, sure_, he'd replied, as if it were criminal to purchase less than enough to fill up a small dump truck_. Did you have stuff you want me to ship for you? I put your name on all the things I got for the kids and my sisters. You seemed… Well… When I mentioned shopping…_

She'd dismissed the offer that morning because she'd been tired after a week straight of double shifts and being on-call, and she hadn't realized that Christmas shopping, for Derek, apparently incorporated every freaking mall in Seattle as part of a huge, sappy mecca, a winding road to peace, love, and hyped commercialism or whatever.

She thought of the small envelope tucked away in her carryon bag. She'd… That was it. She hadn't bought presents for anyone else. And ever since that moment, that moment where he'd walked out, keys jingling as he whistled happily. To FedEx. With a fuckload of presents. She'd wondered if she'd done it wrong already. Well, not really wondered. Known. Wondering if she'd done it wrong had changed to knowing she'd done it wrong when Derek had come home with sheets of tracking numbers. Sheets. Freaking sheets. Not just one or two numbers.

_That way, if one gets lost, it won't be a huge thing_, he'd explained as if it were some kind of rocket science.

She twisted her fingers against her purse straps. This was not a good line of thought. This was bad. This was a bad, bad, bad line of thought. She was okay. She was going to do the freaking Christmas thing, and just because her entire concept of the holiday fit inside a small envelope in her carryon bag did not make her a Scrooge who sucked at Christmas. It didn't. Derek would… Maybe he would like it. The present. Maybe.

Bad thoughts. Bad… She wondered what he'd gotten for her. They hadn't really set up any rules about how much to spend or exchanged any sort of lists or anything, and he had a lot more money to toss around than she did. It felt weird to buy him gifts with money out of his own checking account, which he'd stuck her name on in November. They'd gone to the bank. It'd been a thing. A big… They had joint checks. Derek Shepherd and Meredith Grey. It was neat. But… She'd stuck to her own reserves for Christmas shopping. And it'd… Well, she just didn't have that much. And he had a lot. And… Stop. Stop it. Stop, stop, stop.

She reached into her purse with twitchy fingers. Distractions were good. She needed a distraction. Badly. It was Christmas Eve, she was doing the Christmas thing surrounded by dozens of people who had all done the rocket science Christmas thing their whole lives, her present fit in an envelope, and Derek had FedEx-ed all his crap beforehand. Definitely, this called for a distraction.

She pulled the thin white envelope containing a silver-colored writable CD out of her purse. Izzie's writing in small black marker proclaimed the disc, "Love songs. Pick one, for god's sake. For me. Please?"

"What are you doing?" Derek asked as she switched off the radio. Carol of the Bells ceased with a hiss of static, and she stuffed the disc into the thin slot on the front panel. Her hands were shaking. She withdrew as soon as the CD began to disappear, hoping he hadn't noticed.

"Possibly torturing you," she replied as she pulled the little index card with the track list out of the CD envelope.

Derek pressed the stop button on the radio before the first few chords of piano notes finished. "Torturing?"

"We don't have a song yet, and you've made me sit shotgun, so, I'm going to use the time to the best of my ability, which may involve torturing you. It's that whole pretend-to-like-your-taste-in-music thing rearing its ugly, disharmonious head. You get to pretend, now. Maybe."

"A song?" he said, his tone upturned at the end in question. It was a cautious sort of expression. One that said he didn't get it, but he didn't want to ruin anything.

She stared at Izzie's track list as though it were a critical note. A critical piece of documentation that would allow someone to live or die. Patient allergies. Drug dosages. If she stared at the card, she didn't have to see how stupid Derek thought this idea was. Stupid and random. And sappy. Derek didn't dance, and she didn't know what music he liked, and he was going to think this was a horrible idea. How could she possibly not know what music he liked already? She should know these things. Except all she knew about was The Clash. And punk rock. And his stupid need to have the radio on just for noise. Like silence in the car was a sin. Silence was a perfectly acceptable form of noise, as far as she was concerned. But…

Crap. What if he expected Christmas carols or something, and was privately seething that she was ruining it? Was this not an appropriate conversation for Christmas? Maybe she should have waited, or… Crap, the little voice in her head added again. But she was… Derek kept glancing at her expectantly for an answer. Even Quin was staring. Why? Why did the stupid dog have to take Derek's side every time?

It wasn't. Freaking. Fair.

Scrooge! the little voice screamed. Grinch.

"A piece of music that defines our coupledom," she explained, trying to collect the random twists of words in her head into something coherent for him. "According to Izzie, we have to have one. So we can play it at the reception for our first dance. I hadn't really thought about the first dance thing, you know. You'll have to dance in public. And I'm… It's a dance. Where everyone will be watching. It could be bad if we pick the wrong defining song thing. Like, what if we're one of those couples that plays Every Breath You Take? It's a freaking stalker song. Not a wedding song. Do people listen to the lyrics? No. And then everyone in the audience has to sit there cringing while the bride and groom smile and gush at each other over a song that just sucks. But, I guess they're better off than us, because at least they have a song, even if it's a stalker song. We have no song. And we're getting married in five months. Is there anything you like that's not punk rock? I haven't looked through your iPod. I should have, but I didn't. I'm sorry. Punk rock would probably be bad for a wedding." Meredith ventured a brief look in his direction. The skin around his eyes had crinkled up with mirth, and his lip curled in what could have been a smile if he weren't trying so hard to bludgeon it to death with a straight face. She heaved a woeful sigh. "Crap, you do think this is really stupid, don't you?"

"What?" he managed, and the hint of a smile dissolved into seriousness. "No, I just…" Then the smile came back, as though he couldn't help himself. "You're adorable when you ramble."

"Wonderful. I'm glad I amuse you," she snapped. He didn't even have the good sense to look scolded. He just kept that stupid, smirky, haughty smile on his stupid face, capped off by his stupid hair, and it was all just… stupidly unfair. And mean. Not fair and mean and just… "But that's not the point," she continued. "The point is we need a song. A freaking song. Work with me, here. We need one. And we don't ever dance, so I don't know how we're going to come up with anything special. The only time was at your reunion, and we're not using In The Air Tonight. That's about drowning and retribution and stuff, and that would be… bad. Right? Or is it one of those surreal poet-y things that I missed the meaning of because I suck at abstracting?"

And Christmas. She sucked at both, really. Perhaps she should turn the stupid carols back on. The road swished underneath them, and everything looked gray outside. The sun hung low on the horizon, a fiery half circle just visible over the line of dead trees, and she came to the private conclusion that she was a Christmas killjoy. A freaking Grinch-y Christmas-killing Scrooge-lady, who bought presents that sucked and worried about—

Stop. Stop, it. She was freaking out wasn't she? Yes. She really was. Stop it.

Silence stretched, and she noticed that Derek had actually ceased his expression of private glee and appeared to be making an effort. To humor her, or something. Or maybe… "Um, no," he agreed. "In The Air Tonight is sort of… Not good. Are you… Are you all right, Meredith? You seem like you're… A little upset."

Meredith sighed, replenishing the breath with a long and cleansing inhalation. "I'm not upset," she said. "It's Christmas. It's a happy thing. Izzie gave us this assignment. I'm sure we can pick something that doesn't suck. Right?" She hit the play button again, and the brief hint of piano chords she'd heard before Derek had stopped the CD repeated. Then guitars joined in. And then… "Hey," she said as the singer began. "This has a pretty start."

"Meredith…"

She glanced at the index card. "God Bless The Broken Road," she read. "Rascal Flatts. According to, um, Izzie's squiggley writing."

"It's country," Derek said, his voice flat.

"Well, yeah," she acknowledged. There was a bit of that obvious Southern twang in the vocals. "It is a little… But the lyrics…"

"No," Derek said. "It's country, Meredith."

"You don't like country?"

His fingers squeaked as he gripped the steering wheel. His jaw-line tensed and bulged as he clenched his teeth, and she noticed he looked like he was cringing over a set of nails streaking down some chalkboard in a nightmare classroom. "No," he said. "Definitely not."

"Huh," she said. Derek did not like country music. As in hated. She filed that away, a private zing of glee overwhelming every cynical Christmas-killing feeling of dread that had collected. She was learning important stuff, and he was humoring her. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. "Okay. How about…"

She hit the skip button on the radio, and the next song began. A woman, singing softly to the slow progression of piano chords. They both listened quietly. Quin howled when the melody launched into the higher registers, and, though he managed the lofty heights the singer reached, he was quite off-key. She grinned, reaching back to scratch him. "He likes it," she said. The lyrics were beautiful. The song was… The song was beautiful.

"What is this?" Derek murmured.

"So Are You To Me," Meredith answered as she looked at the track list. "Eastmountainsouth."

"It doesn't have any beat."

"No, but listen to it," Meredith countered. "It's gorgeous."

"And apparently short," Derek replied as the song abruptly ended.

Meredith sighed. "That wouldn't work, would it?"

"It would take me the length of the song just to figure out how to lead you," Derek said, his voice dipping low with rue. "I have enough trouble with my feet as it is."

"Who says you'd be leading? You're the dance-challenged one. Not me."

His fingers flexed around the steering wheel, and the corner of his lip twitched in what she could only assume was a checked grin. "You like dancing?" His tone expressed his subtle pleasure over the fact, which she found curious. Why would he be happy that she liked an activity he hated?

"I love dancing," she confirmed as she tried to figure out where his mind was at.

He glanced at her, his eyes twinkling. "What kind of dancing?"

"Grind-y, sweaty club dancing," she said. "Not ballroom. Well, I don't know about that. I've never really tried it. Ballroom dancing, I mean." She sighed, watching the scenery passing by. There were a lot of things she'd never done, when she thought about it. "And I like slow dancing," she added, her voice low as the clusters of stick-y trees along the roadside blurred into gray. "With you. I like that."

"Mere…"

"Even if it's vastly inappropriate and about drowning, In The Air Tonight…"

Derek's gaze ticked off the road to her before resettling on the roll of the pavement as the car churned over it. "It's special," he said. The grin on his face was a fabulous expression that she wanted to bask in forever. "Kind of ours."

"Yeah," she replied, sighing. "It kind of is. Derek, I…"

"I didn't know you liked dancing," Derek repeated, a pleased, sated expression overwhelming his features. Almost like he'd just had some great sex.

"Well, you don't," Meredith replied with a shrug. "So--"

He stared at the road. "We should go to a club."

"What? Why? You hate clubbing."

"I don't hate clubbing," he said. "I used to love clubbing. I'm from Manhattan, Mere. How exactly do you think I got into The Clash? There was this great spot at 315 Bowery that I just--"

"But you said…" she stuttered, trying to picture him. At a club. Then again… punk rock. He'd had the bike. He'd lived in New York City. And he'd had Mark. Mark might have dragged him to something, or… Maybe… Her eyes narrowed as the image began to incorporate leather jackets and chains and those silly leather gloves with holes in the fingers that only covered your palms. She tried not to laugh. She did. And she managed. Sort of.

He smiled, looking bemused but good-humored at her failed efforts as she snorted. "I said I don't dance in public," he countered. "I never said I didn't like to go clubbing. And you like it. So…"

"But what about woodsy, introverted Derek 2.0?"

His eyebrows rose. "Derek 2.0?"

"It's the term I've developed for the Seattle you," she said. "The you that I know and love."

"Let's just say Seattle Derek noticed Bright-and-Shiny Meredith is trying out all of Seattle Derek's hobbies, but she hasn't offered anything up."

"I don't have hobbies to offer up, Derek," she insisted. "You're the one with hobbies. I'm hobby-less and boring. I never had any time except for… Well, I had time. I just used it for stupid stuff. Like--"

"Clubbing."

"And drinking. And sex. There was lots of drinking and sex," she said, and then the pictures of Derek in leather and chains on his motorcycle evolved. Liquor bottles. Hair grease. A spiked dog collar around his throat. And a tight black shirt. Yes. He'd have to have one of those. She blinked, half-laughing at the ludicrous image and half-turned on. Tight. Leather. Tight leather. And black. Derek looked very good in black. Derek looked good in anything, but particularly dark blue and black. And… Damn it. Stop. Moment. They were having a learning moment. She had to-- Leather! "You really like to…" she managed, only to have her voice choke away as her throat constricted. She coughed. "I don't see you on the club scene, Derek. Visualization is failing me. Or, well, it's not failing me. But it's very scary."

Perhaps he just went in frayed jeans. Frayed jeans seemed like a more appropriate act of rebellion for Derek than hair grease and dog collars. Frayed jeans, thready and thin on the back pockets, open at the knees, maybe a few snags along the quads, uneven and stringy at the ends where his boots began… Yeah. Black boots. Not combat boots or grungy biker boots, just… The boots he always liked to wear when he wasn't in sneakers, the sharp, pointed, stylish kind with heels to catch the bike stirrups. Sexy. And he would have a black shirt, maybe with the logo of the club. With a sharp-looking leather jacket. Not horrendously punk-y with silver buckles on the shoulders. Just a smart leather coat that worked to forward the whole motorcycle image. There was the picture. She'd found it. She licked her lips.

"There's still lots of new stuff to find out, Mere," Derek said. He grinned, and the great sex expression returned. "I didn't know you like to dance."

She shared his look of glee. "I know," she replied with a smile. "Well… What about this song, then?"

She flipped the skip button until the CD-player landed on track seven. The song started slowly and wasn't very textured to begin with, but she knew it by heart. Vocals and piano. Then the drums started, and the strings eventually cut in. It built. Into something bigger, like a big, building… Like a big, building mystery story with a definitive climax where all the whodunits came to light. And the lyrics. The lyrics, which she'd always found pretty before, suddenly connected with her in a way that made her chest hurt. They were about someone. Suddenly. Instead of being about an amorphous Prince Charming she never expected to meet.

She bit her lip as she watched him, trying to gauge his reaction, which started, really, as no reaction whatsoever. His face hovered in neutral, sort of like Switzerland, were it an expression and not a country or… Yeah. He swallowed, staring at the road. The dim, golden light of the sun cast its dying glow on his face, making his eyes sparkle and his skin seem otherworldly. Loose strands of his raven-brown hair lit up like hot metal, turning incandescent orange in the bath of waning light.

She settled back against her seat, letting her eyes dip into half-lidded relaxation. The heaters blew on her, bathing her in soft warmth that slowly seeped to her core. She watched him.

She loved this song so much. She always had, ever since she'd heard it on the dance floor in London. And now… Now, she had someone sitting next to her who made it come alive. Because for her, it was about Derek, and that was… That was perfect. It made the song even better, made it three-dimensional and real and… Hers.

She realized, in that moment, she didn't care whether he liked it or not, and the nerves bled away. It might not be their song, but it was definitely hers, and it was a very good feeling.

"Izzie picked this out?" Derek asked, breaking into her musing.

"No, I did," Meredith admitted. "I saw she was making the CD for me, and I suggested she put… Well, I heard this when I was in London."

"Your Europe trip," Derek said. "You want your bad plane sex with the Frenchman to be immortalized at our wedding?"

"This was from later," she protested. "This is…" She noted the perplexed expression on his face. "You don't like it."

"It's… interesting," he decided as the main rhythm finally cut in. "What is it?"

"Gorecki, by Lamb."

He frowned. "What kind of name is Gorecki?"

"I don't know!" Meredith said. "I don't pay attention to that. It's just the lyrics, they…"

"The lyrics are kind of perfect," Derek agreed, his voice low and soft.

She grinned. He got it, even if he didn't like it. He… "They really are," she said.

"But, Meredith," Derek said. "This isn't really…"

"You said you liked clubbing."

"I do like clubbing," he said. "You, it seems, like raving."

"Raving, clubbing." She shrugged. "Whatever."

He smirked. "I would die to know what the hell you were doing in London to this music."

"Swapping spit with some guy, probably."

"Probably?"

"Raving, Derek," she said. "There was alcohol involved. And some other stuff."

"Other stuff, huh." His teeth flashed as he gave her an evil grin. "What other stuff?"

"Pretty colors," she stated. "That's all I remember. I don't do that crap anymore."

Her head had been pounding when she'd woken up. She'd swallowed, spit tasting sticky and metallic against her throat as she'd sat up. She'd found herself on the cold, wooden floor, hair shooting out in all directions, still in the prison of hairspray and dye and product she'd tortured it with. She'd found her underwear dangling around her ankle. She'd found her bra later after an intense search. The room had spun wildly as she'd sat up, followed by sharp, jabbing pains as she'd asked her muscles to connect with her brain again. She'd winced blearily at the wet, used condom she found on the floor by her face.

_Hello?_ she'd said, but the word had been a grating remnant of her speaking voice, as if she hadn't uttered a word in days.

Nobody had answered. It hadn't been until she'd hobbled to the phone, a phone she didn't recognize in an apartment she didn't know, and saw the blinking light on the answering machine that she'd started to freak out. She'd hit play. She didn't know why. She wasn't particularly nosey. But the light had been blinking, and she'd been firing on about three total neurons at the time.

_Mere, babe. Had a great time. See you later at the party, maybe. I hear they scored some good shit for it._

She hadn't recognized the voice, neither the timbre nor the faint, lilting British accent. She hadn't recognized the apartment. She hadn't recognized the clothes she'd been wearing, and she hadn't even been able to remember when she'd painted her nails with the lacquered black shade she'd found at her fingertips, chipped and cracked and old. She hadn't been able to remember anything.

_What's wrong with me? _she'd said in a cracking, broken voice as she'd tried to get her legs to work, only to collapse in a twitching, aching pile on the couch. _What's wrong? What's wrong? What's wrong?_

Derek smiled. "Because you're bright and shiny, now?"

"I totally am."

His fingers squeaked against the steering wheel, and he shifted in his seat, his eyes staring at the road. He blinked, and it seemed like in that moment, the sunset became night. The last hint of gold faded from his face, leaving them in darkness. Deep, light-polluted purple clogged what should have been a black-touched blue sky. His eyes glittered in the waning light, and the soft green glow of the dashboard filled the space between them with a vague nighttime light. She watched his hands in the darkness as they gripped the wheel, and then she settled down to watch the road pass underneath them. The white lane dividers sprawled out in the glow of the headlights and beyond, blurring into an on-off line sort of like she imagined Morse-code would look, were it a painting instead of a sound.

"I'm glad you're happy, Meredith," Derek said, his voice barely audible over the soft air of the heaters and Quin's peaceful breathing in the backseat. The dog had settled down to snooze, and he had his muzzle cradled between his two front paws. His eyebrows twitched in the onslaught of canine dreams.

Wanna stay right here, 'til the end of time, she mouthed as Lamb's vocalist continued onward. "Me, too," she said. "I like it. Being happy, I mean. And I'm really glad you're feeling better. Really, Derek."

"I'm driving," he stated, his voice puffing up with pride.

"You are."

He sighed as the song neared its finish. "I don't know, Meredith. I agree the words are… good. But this music isn't really…"

"Your thing?" she supplied when his voice fell away.

"Not really, no," he admitted. "And I can't imagine dancing to this at a wedding. It's just…"

She'd expected as much when he'd called it interesting instead of given it an actual adjective. Interesting was the word people used to avoid hurt feelings. What an interesting idea. You look interesting. Your choice was interesting. Not that she minded much. He'd given it a try. And he got it, even if he didn't like it. "It makes me think of you," she said.

"Mere, if you really… If you want to use this song, we can use this song. I kind of… I love that this makes you think of me, even if I don't necessarily love it myself."

"Then it misses the point."

"The point?"

"It has to be our song," she said. "Not mine. Not yours. Ours. And we don't have one, Derek. We have no song." She skipped back to track four as Gorecki came to a close. "How about this one?" She squinted at the track list in the darkness. "Feels Like Home. By, uh… Chantal. Somebody. I can't even begin to pronounce this. This kind of works. It's pretty, but not horrifically diva."

"Diva?"

"I think track five might work, too," she said, staring at the list. "It's-- Wait. That's country, too. Why are all the good non-sappy, non-diva love songs country?" She reached for the radio to hit the skip button.

"Mere, stop," he murmured. His palm brushed against her skin, and he pushed her away from the radio before she could switch the song to the next non-country ballad. They hovered in the air, touching, and he sighed. His skin was always so warm. And perfect. She tilted her hand until it hung in the air, palm to palm with his, and grasped him.

"What?" she said, closing her eyes as she basked in the dark and the comfort of the moment.

"A song is something that happens," Derek said. "You don't pick it."

She swallowed and cracked her eyes open. The blur of the dashboard coalesced. "I suppose you would know," she said. "I mean… You already have one with somebody else."

She bit her lip when she realized what she'd said might have sounded jealous or something. To him. Jealous. She hadn't meant it that way at all. It was just… All new. To her, it was all new. This was take two for him. He had a chance to fix all his screw ups. This was her chance to make the mistakes for the first time. Sometimes, it was a daunting sort of weight on her shoulders, knowing that.

A quiet breath whuffed from his lips, sort a laugh, but not really. He blinked, and she watched the way the dashboard glittered against the film of wetness over his eyes. His lip twitched, and in his face, she didn't read any sort of condemnation or anger. Just muted amusement. Bewilderment. If only you knew, his expression seemed to say.

"No, I don't," he said.

"What?"

"The only time Addison and I ever really danced was when we met," he said. "I was so drunk the song could have been Tragedy, and I wouldn't have noticed."

"What about your wedding?" she prodded, curiosity driving her to pry. "And hospital prom. You totally danced with her at hospital prom."

"At our wedding, we danced to some horrifically sappy ballad that she picked out," he said as Chantal swept her song into another swelling chorus.

"Like this one," Meredith said with an understanding frown.

Derek nodded. "Like this one, Mere. And at prom…"

"What?"

"I had my mind on you," he said, a small, ironic breath of laughter escaping from his lips. "Not her."

"Oh."

"Which was probably obvious."

"I did sort of notice," she said. "So, if you don't dance in public, how are we supposed to get a song?"

"It'll figure itself out, Mere."

She turned in the seat and watched his profile. "How are you always so sure?"

He smiled. "It's a gift," he said. "But we can listen to the rest of this CD if you want. Maybe it'll happen in the next forty-five minutes."

"Okay," she replied.

They drove the rest of the way in darkness, but not silence, as the rest of Izzie's selections played. They spoke of the merits and demerits of each. Beat is too fast. Beat is too slow. Beat is nonexistent. Too sappy. Not sappy enough.

Derek, it seemed, actually had a rather eclectic sense of taste in music, and most of the songs on the disc, he at least showed an appreciation for, even if he didn't necessarily like them. She learned that her picture of him in his club-going days had been mostly correct as he related how Mark had dragged him to a club during college to 'loosen him up a little', and he'd heard a band doing a cover of one of The Clash's songs. He'd traced the song's lineage back to its parents, and from there, he'd slowly come down off the ledge of stereotypical valedictorian archetype into a valley of more flavored, textured personality, started to become more than just a hint of the Derek she knew. Started growing up.

He seemed delighted to learn that her desire to go to medical school and make something of herself had evolved as her own sense of rebellion had flared bright and then died in torrent of spent embers. Well, not thrilled at the story. But thrilled that she was talking. Europe had untwisted the last of her kinks. She'd woken up somewhere after a bad trip, hadn't had a clue where she was or how she'd gotten there. And that had been it. The last straw. She'd flown home, horrified, her mother had gotten sick, and the rest had been history. She'd become Dr. Meredith Grey.

The closer to their destination they traveled, the slower he drove. The roads lost their battle with the encroaching snow as he turned onto his mother's street, and she finally understood exactly why Derek had insisted on an SUV with the rental agency this time.

The street was nothing but white and quiet. Thick, puffy snow covered everything. Though the sky above hung stark and black and twinkley overhead with the light dusting of stars, and the remnants of storm clouds had since passed, the snow hadn't yet received an opportunity to melt. Wind had smoothed it into drifts. The street had been plowed at one point, but new snow had covered the pavement again, and the plows had not yet returned.

Colored lights decorated the Shepherd house around the door and the bushes that framed the walkway. Little electric candles dotted each window of the large house between the blinds and the glass panes. A gigantic, gorgeous wreath with a red-plaid ribbon hung around the doorknocker at the front door. Embossed against the golden glow escaping from the windows, Meredith saw shadow patterns flickering against the shades. People. Moving inside. Many people. Having fun. Talking. People.

"You're sure you're okay, Mere?" Derek asked as he turned the key in the ignition, and the rumbling of the SUV faded into the muffled silence of snow.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she insisted as she gritted her teeth and clenched her fingers around her purse straps. This was it. "It's Christmas."

"Yeah," he said. "Our first."

For a long march of moments, they sat there, quiet, unmoving, peaceful, just sharing the passing time. Derek leaned forward, pinching his nose with his fingers, sitting, breathing. He sighed, and then he got out of the SUV. Meredith let the door slam vibrate in her chest, let the cold blast of air sink into her pores. She listened as his feet crunched against the snow along the side of the car. He popped the trunk, and though she expected him to grab their luggage and start heading toward the house, instead, she heard the whine of a zipper as he tore into their joint suitcase. She turned around in time to see him donning his thick winter coat, which he'd pulled from its tightly packed space on top of their regular clothes. The fabric made a soft rustling noise as he slipped it over his shoulders.

He slammed the trunk shut before she could ask what on earth he was doing. The rear passenger door came open. "Come on, Quin. It's snow," Derek said, his voice dripping with the quiet whisper of pent up excitement.

Meredith smiled as the dog shot out of the SUV with a playful bark and took off to explore the new, funny wet stuff. Derek's breath clawed out from his mouth in a cloud of mist as he gathered up a wet, perfect snowball and lobbed it across the yard with sharp, whistling speed that spoke of long forgotten battles in the snow, building walls and forts of powder, stockpiling slush bombs and other cold instruments of maiming. Snow clawed out in a fan behind Quin's back feet as the dog dug in with his hindquarters and shot across the yard. The snowball landed with a splat and dispersed next to a winter-barren tree, leaving a pockmark in the wind-swept surface. Quin lowered his nose into the white mess, snorting and running around in circles, trying to figure out where his mysterious toy had vanished.

Derek laughed and lobbed another ball of snow, expertly aimed, as Meredith decided to brave the cold. She hopped through the dense slush in the driveway, her feet half-crunching, half-sinking into the wet mess below her soles with strange slurch, slurch, slurching sounds. Cold seeped through her shoes, and she cursed her poor planning. Their poor planning.

They really shouldn't have packed away all their winter clothes, but… It hadn't been that cold in Seattle. She opened the trunk and pulled out her coat, throwing it on as fast as her shivering limbs could manage, but it was too late to stave off the first chill, and for a moment, she stood there, shocked and twitching with the onslaught of cold sting and ache.

She looked up in time to see Derek careening onto his back in an explosion of snow as Quin yapped and ran in circles around him. He laughed as the dog attacked him with kisses, and Meredith couldn't help but smile as she heard the cadences of his low murmurs. Derek scrunched his gloveless hands against Quin's muzzle and ruffled him affectionately, and as she drew closer, words formed from the rise and fall of sound. "Somebody likes snow, doesn't he? Oh, yes, he does."

"Somebody definitely likes snow," Meredith commented with a laugh as she stumbled through the yard to Derek's prone form. Quin looked up at her and barked before returning to reassess the cleanliness of Derek's face. He found it lacking, and the bath started all over again.

Derek cackled with glee, rolling onto his side to get away from the dog. He stood, shaking off his curly hair and jacket and hands much like a wet dog. Powdery snow and slush went flying everywhere, and he shoved his hands into his pockets immediately. "I like it until it melts in my pants," he said. "Which it's going to do very soon at this rate."

"What about your shirt?" Meredith said.

He raised an eyebrow at her as Quin pushed up against her leg and leaned, demanding more attention, or perhaps more lobbed snowballs. "My shirt?" Derek said.

She bent down and gathered up a handful of snow, mashing it into a compact piece of slush, wincing as the cold seeped through her skin. She drew her arm back and faked the throw with a flick of her wrist. Quin launched forward, spraying both her and Derek with upturned snow as he fought for traction. Derek followed the dog with his gaze, and it was the opening she needed. She stuffed the melting snowball down the neck of his coat.

"FFFFF---!" Derek began to belt as the packed ice slipped down inside his jacket, only to flash a wide-eyed look of horror at the house where the shadows of countless bodies moved behind the curtains. His curse ended in a strangely wailing "AH!" He comically twisted around, trying to get away from it, but it was stuck inside his coat, and suddenly they were both careening backward into a heap in the chilly, wet snow as he grabbed her and pulled her down on top of him with a half-growl, half-chuckle.

"See?" Meredith said with a giggle as she settled against his heaving body. "Your shirt is kinda wet, now." She drew a cold index finger down his nose while he shivered and panted and sputtered.

Quin returned, a perplexed look on his face. Why? Why can't I find these mysterious white things you keep throwing? I don't get it. I just… Don't get it. She reached up and scratched his neck, and he collapsed into the heap with them, his tail wagging, dusting their legs with fresh, wet snow.

"You cheated," Derek decided as he stared up at the pinpricked, black sky. His teeth started to chatter. "Jesus, that's cold, Meredith."

She kissed him.

"Okay, that's not so cold," he muttered against her lips as she drew her fingers through his wet hair and sighed.

"This is my first Christmas," she said as she panted, nose-to-nose with him.

"I know," Derek said, his eyes twinkling, smile wide and brilliant, even as his skin bleached of color and his hair started to twitch with the shivers racing through his body.

"No," Meredith said. "I mean it's my first Christmas ever, Derek. Christmas with my mother? Not Christmas. So I'm… I'm a little nervous. I spent the whole time in the car wondering if I was ruining it."

For a moment, he stared. Just a moment. A blink. Expressionless. A soft sigh hit her face as he breathed out with the enormous weight of what she'd just said. She felt his hands slide around her and pull her into a tight embrace. And then he kissed her.

"You're here," he whispered. "You're not ruining it, Meredith. You couldn't possibly. You're here, and… That makes it perfect."

She smiled as Quin stood with a yap and started to explore the snow, his nose to the ground. "So," she said. "Now that we've established I'm not fine, are you okay? I mean really okay?"

His smile flattened into something not… unhappy. But not… at peace. Definitely not at peace. He blew out a breath, a fan of misty air puffing around them. "I haven't had trouble with big crowds and noises and things for weeks. I shouldn't be nervous."

"And you're here," she countered. "You're here all the time and saying things. I shouldn't be nervous, either."

His lip twitched, and his grin returned. "I guess we just suck."

Meredith laughed. "I guess so."

Quin added his agreement as he returned and smothered them with fresh snow and wet kisses and playful yapping, just in time for the front door to open. "I thought I heard some X-rated shenanigans out here," a tall, lanky shadow in the doorway said. "You've ruined Ellen's perfectly picturesque snow, you know. It's all churned up, now. Points for locale, though. Your mother's front lawn in the snow? Wow."

Meredith scrambled off of Derek, and they stumbled to their feet. "We were just playing," Meredith replied as Derek brushed off his coat and pants. He started sweeping his hand against her back, sending chunks of snow to the ground, and she sighed, leaning back into his touch with a smile.

"Hey, man, you made it, finally," Mark said, appearing next to Stewart. The two of them stood in the doorway in identical Knicks t-shirts. It would have been adorable were it not for the fact that now that the activity had stopped, Meredith realized she was freaking cold. Derek pulled her into a hug, and they lumbered up the walk, a bundle of wet stuff and shivering limbs. Quin plodded behind, tongue dangling from the side of his mouth, a cheerful, amazed look of curiosity tempering his chocolate eyes.

"Yeah, well, some of us didn't have two weeks of leave to burn," Derek answered as the two of them stomped into the foyer.

"I know," Mark said.

"I'll go get your luggage," Stewart said, launching himself into the cold from which they had just escaped.

Bits and clots of snow fell to the welcome mat and began to melt on impact as she and Derek shook off, leaving puddles and slush and yuck. Warmth slammed into her face, followed by the cloying scent of cinnamon and something baking. The loud murmur of voices, feet thumped overhead and toward the back of the house, and the crackle-snap of a nearby fire in a fireplace thundered against her ears in a huge, spiraling rush of… Christmas. Holiday. Everything. She didn't have a chance to worry, because as soon as Mark had taken her sopping coat, Derek wrapped himself around her. His body shivered against her back, but it didn't matter. She'd never felt so warm in her life.

"Addison?" Derek asked as he rubbed his palms against her arms, creating friction and heat. She stood there, allowing the warmth and shock and panic to soak in and return circulation to her limbs.

"She stayed home this time," Mark called over his shoulder as he took their coats to the closet. "She didn't want it to be too awkward."

"Ah," Derek answered.

"Hello, Meredith," Nancy said as she appeared in the doorway to the foyer.

"A puppy!" Mary shrieked, tearing past her mother. Quin was quite happy to receive the attention.

"Be careful honey, he's wet," Nancy said.

"Nancy," Meredith said.

"Hey, Mary," Derek said as he relinquished his hold on Meredith and knelt down to greet his niece. "His name is Algonquin," he said, his voice dripping with a parental sort of pride. "But we call him Quin."

"Hi, Quin," Mary said, a smile ripping her face from ear to ear. The dog licked her, and her giggle wound into the cascade of voices all through the house.

Nancy folded her arms over her chest and smiled faintly. "Merry Christmas," Nancy said.

"Um." Meredith swallowed. "Mer-- Merry Christmas."

Nancy gave her a small nod. "Uncle Derek and Aunt Meredith are here!" she called loudly into the hallway, clapping her hands in emphasis.

Meredith shivered as the rumble of sounds all seemed to converge at once, and suddenly she was enveloped in words and laughs and smiles and hugs and handshakes and things that swept her breath away.

"Good lord," Ellen commented into the family fray. "You two are soaked."

"Yes," Derek replied. "But we're here."


	55. Chapter 53

Derek had left her.

Meredith tapped her nails against the side of the cup. A twist of steam curled from the lip of the ceramic mug, wafting the bitter scent of cocoa toward her nose. Her nostrils fluttered as she inhaled the warmth without thinking, and all the while, her fingers never stopped. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Quin's playful barking rumbled through the house amidst a torrent of human laughter. The dog was a ginormous hit with the kids, and he apparently liked to ham it up for a big audience. The taps of her fingernails intermingled with the clacking of his claws on Ellen's poor hardwood floors.

Meredith glanced across the coffee table at Ellen, who sat on the couch, looking as though nothing unusual were happening. Her fingers twisted to make repetitive stitch after stitch as she worked with a needle at the red fabric in her hands. The project sprawled against Ellen's lap and worn work apron. She had her legs crossed at the ankles, and with her weathered, pale skin alight with the blaze of the fireplace and the Christmas tree, she formed a collective, mothering image that, for Meredith, made it impossible to descend entirely into panic. Which was good. Not panicking. A warm smile tempered Ellen's look of concentration. Her eyes twinkled, and she seemed to be enjoying the mayhem hammering at her eardrums. Barking. Talking. Laughing. Kids. Feet. Noise. Everywhere.

Meredith sighed, wishing she could understand the sentiment. The living room looked like Izzie had run a rampage through it. A nine-foot Christmas tree towered in the corner of the room. Thick clots of lights and reflective, multicolored ornaments made the thing practically nuclear. It had a corona. Christmas trees were not supposed to have coronas. Were they? The corner of the room where the tree stood was slightly hot, and the only other light turned on in the room was the lamp that cast its glow on Ellen's work.

Stockings covered every inch of the mantle over the fireplace and ran down the sides. Everyone had one. The ones belonging to the original Shepherd family and Mark looked older than the ones that had been put up for the newer members. The fabric of the older stockings was a dark, deep red, and showed fraying signs of wear and tear. Meredith had smiled despite her upset when she'd paused her exploration of the room on Derek's stocking, her fingers brushing the smooth, soft, old material. At the toe, she'd found a small pop in the seam, and she'd wondered how often his own fingers had passed over the same spot, the same thready entrails.

A manger sat on the mantle between a pair of glowing candles. Holly strings framed the edge of the mantle, hiding the mounts for the stockings. She still couldn't get over that. Holly strings. She thought that was only from the song. Deck the Halls or whatever. But people, apparently, actually used holly to decorate.

And the presents... The presents not from 'Santa' had already been put out. There were tons. Freaking. Tons. Big boxes. Little boxes. Big bows. Bags. Tissue paper. Ribbons. Stickers. Wrapping paper covered with elves and wreathes and Santas and reindeer and candy canes and presents. Wrapping paper covered with presents. That was a bit… Recursive. And weird.

"It helps to drink it, dear," Ellen said, her low, warm, earthy voice a soothing balm against the sensory overload in the room. The sensory overload Derek had left her with. Just left her.

Meredith's gaze ticked nervously down to her cup of hot chocolate. "I… Yeah." She took a sip, except she was nervous, and the sip became a gigantic swallow, and a gigantic swallow was a bit more than her taste buds were equipped to deal with. "Ow," she commented as she held her mouth open and breathed. "Ish hot!" She waved her hands like she was trying to flick water off of her skin. Not that it helped with the heat. But it felt like it should, damn it.

Ellen grinned. "Well, it's not a rum shot, dear," she said, though there was no bite of insult in the words. Just observation. "You sip."

Meredith licked her lips. "I'm sorry. It's just that…" She was doing it wrong. Already. She stared at the piles of gifts. The kids had huge piles. The adults got smaller stacks. But, still. Stacks. Derek had a stack, which she had contributed precisely zero presents to thus far. She had a stack, mostly from Derek, which was terrifying. Nothing from him looked like it would fit in an envelope. Not even close. Which was bad. It was awful. Derek had bought a store for her. Or… Bad. Stop.

She bit her lip, thinking about the little business envelope she'd bought. Little hollies laced the border, and she'd thought it was pretty. She'd licked it closed, and now… Now it was sitting in her carryon. Getting wrinkled. Because she didn't want to bring it out and put it on Derek's stack of boxes. Huge boxes that shouted her inadequacy for all the Shepherds to see. Huge boxes all wrapped in much prettier paper than her holly-strung envelope. She didn't want to put her little envelope on Derek's stack when he'd set out a pile for her. A pile. A freaking. Pile.

The back of her throat stung. Derek had left her, she'd gotten him a crappy present, she didn't know what the hell she was supposed to be doing, and everyone was having fun and enjoying themselves, which made her feel like a little Christmas wart or something. Even Quin, who she'd thought would be traumatized by the whole process of airline travel, was behaving like he'd sucked down a bit too much nog. How could people be this happy? It was…

Derek had left her. That was the problem. She'd hopped in the shower to warm up, and he hadn't joined her, which, while she hadn't really expected it, she'd sure hoped he would. He liked to do it at home a lot. But he hadn't. And then when she'd gone into the bedroom to change, he'd been gone, and she hadn't seen him since.

He'd left her.

"I like to sit out here by myself and listen, sometimes," Ellen offered. As if it would help. "It's less overwhelming that way."

"Sure," Meredith agreed, trying to keep her voice steady.

Overwhelming. She was past overwhelmed. She was a vast mountain of earthquake-y goodness. Epicenters had nothing on her. She was in a pit of family noise. Laugh, laugh, laugh. Talk, talk, talk. Step, step, step. Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark. Quin kept adding his exclamation points to the fray, and suddenly, she found the noise grating.

The cacophony made her want to shriek. Yes. Yes, I'm a freaking scrooge-y humbug who doesn't have a clue how to do this. I'm hiding in the living room with the nuclear light show instead of standing out there adding to the laugh, laugh, laugh, talk, talk, talk, step, step, step. And I suck. I just. Suck.

Meredith sipped at her cocoa. Carefully. She tried to hold the cup steady despite her shaky hands. The smooth, warm chocolate flowed down her throat and settled in her stomach. The room seemed to heat up with just that small infusion. She took another sip and crossed her legs.

She had to calm down. She should just… go find the crowd. And stand there. And talk. Or something. Except sitting away from the crowd while Ellen sewed… whatever… seemed so much less daunting.

"Mere," Derek said, his voice low and worshipping as he came into the room. "When did you get out of the shower?"

He sat down next to her, and she felt her muscles loosening as the cushions sank with his weight, tilting her into his body. He wrapped his arm over her shoulder and pulled her against him, and she felt her grip slackening. She sighed and leaned into his chest, inhaling the soft cinnamon scent wafting from his damp, cold clothes. He hadn't even changed yet. What? What had he been doing that he didn't even have time to change?

"About twenty minutes ago," she said, guestimating. Her freak-outs tended to make time seem slower by powers of ten. Or possibly twenty.

His left arm came up. The glass pane of his wristwatch glittered in the radioactive bath of Christmas lighting. 7:45, she read from the analog face. "Oh, wow," he said. His fingers clutched her shoulder before slipping behind her to rub her back. "Sorry. I was talking with Kathy and Sarah about something important."

He quirked an apologetic grin at her, and she melted, forgetting all her discomfort. She felt herself relaxing against him, damp clothes be damned. Pulling her knees up with a sigh, she brushed her nose against his jaw line.

"I'm fine," she said. Really, it was stupid for her to get upset about twenty minutes of abandonment. It wasn't like he'd left her with strangers. Or left at all, really. He'd just been in another room. Talking with his family. He deserved to talk to his family. He freaking loved his family. She was…

She was a rotten person. She was an awful, no good, Christmas wart. She was… warty. And clingy. She, Meredith Grey, had become a clingy, Christmas-fearing freak. How did that work? Dark-and-twisty Meredith would have flipped Santa the bird.

"There," Ellen said. "All done." She pulled the needle away from her project and stared at it. A satisfied smile crinkled around her eyes, and she looked just like Derek did when he was pleased. Her face… just like Derek's. In that moment. Meredith blinked, running a hand against his damp sweater.

"What are you making, Mom?" Derek said.

Ellen held it up for them to see, and Meredith felt like her world was stopping. Just. Stopping. "I get a stocking?" she blurted as she stared at the bright red corduroy clutched in Ellen's hands. Looping, embroidered cursive declared Meredith's name against the white lining at the top. She stared, and then she felt dumb, and a blush snarled across her skin. "I mean… I mean… I do?"

"Every Shepherd gets a stocking," Ellen said, as if it were writ, as if it were…

Every Shepherd. Meredith felt her muscles stiffen, and she couldn't breathe. For a minute, she couldn't do more than stare. Every Shepherd.

"If the family keeps burgeoning like this, we'll need a backup fireplace," Derek joked. And then he turned to her. She felt him breathing next to her ear. "Oh, Meredith. Are you okay?"

"No. Yes. I mean. I don't know," she babbled. "Maybe?"

Derek chuckled. "That was fairly vague, given how many words were involved."

"I'm sorry," she said, and suddenly all the pent-up, twisted words unwound and fell out of her like water from a pitcher. Tip. Tipping. Tipped. Splash. "I'm sorry. I'm. I got a horrible present. You'll hate it. I'm awful at buying presents. And shopping. And I've only ever gotten you that cap, but it was something you needed, like socks or whatever, which makes it easy, but you don't need this, and I don't know... It's… I can't… I don't know what I'm doing. I don't… I'm… You probably spent a fortune or something, or you didn't, and now you'll feel guilty, because you'll assume I wanted you to spend a fortune because I'm assuming you did spend a fortune because I have a stack, or… You have a stack by the tree, Derek. And they're all big things, and I'm a horrible person because you deserve to spend time with your freaking family for twenty minutes."

She couldn't help but wince as she listened to her rambling change from gnarled, Meredith-brain words to yucky, spoken words. He stared at her with this understanding, gooey look of love. The one he reserved for her when he adored her every feature, every curve, every hair. Except she was ugly and blushing and sniveling, and she'd gotten him a horrible present, and how could he possibly be so Derek-y right then? It was all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. She was doing this terribly wrong. She cringed.

The warm ceramic slipped from her lax fingers as he took her cocoa mug away. She heard it clink onto the table as he set it down on a sparkling, crystal coaster, and then she found herself wrapped in his arms. Whispers hit her ears. His arms and hands and body were all warm and perfect and there. Past the blur of tears and damp sweater and Derek and the halo of too many lights, she saw Ellen shift like a blot of paint in a work of impressionism.

"This one definitely goes in the middle," Ellen stated, her voice definitive and calm and sympathetic despite the fact that everything felt like it was exploding. Her blur moved out of sight as she shifted across the floor. Meredith blinked, feeling hot tears slip down her face.

"Meredith," Derek said against her ear, his voice low and soothing. "Whatever you got me is perfect. Stop worrying about what I'll think."

She sniffled. "How can you say that?"

He shrugged. "It's from you, and you're here."

She rubbed a finger against her nose, clutching at his sweater. The wool was damp and cool with melted snow, but she didn't care. She just didn't. "What if I got you a crappy tie?"

His arms tightened around her. "You're here. I'll wear it."

"Even if it looks like a clown died on it or something?"

"I can make anything look sexy," he replied. "Even dying clown ties from my colorblind fiancé."

She elbowed him, unable to stop herself from laughing. Some of the tension and wondering leaked away. "You're an ass," she said.

"A sexy ass," he said with a definitive nod.

"Well, I have been working out," Stewart said as he tromped into the room carrying a small, wrapped package. Meredith looked up to find him wheeling around to inspect his hindquarters with a discerning, humorous stare. Ellen clucked her tongue and laughed as she finished mounting Meredith's stocking.

Meredith sighed. Her name. Meredith. She had her own red stocking. Ellen had put hers and Derek's right in the middle.

Flames flickered in the fireplace, dancing across the wooden logs. While she was there, Ellen turned some of the wood with a poker. A roaring hiss erupted as one of the logs shifted, and a plume of sparks flew up into the chimney. Stewart wandered over to the tree and set the box he carried on Sarah's stack.

Derek's fingers tensed. "Stu," he said, leaning forward in his seat, and Meredith couldn't help noticing the excitement twisting up his voice. "I need to talk to you about... Um…" Derek looked at Meredith, a doubtful expression on his face as some of the rabid excitement deflated. "Are you—"

"I'm fine, Der," she said, wiping furiously at her face. It was so stupid to cry. This was happy. Right? Happy. Family happy. Happy family. She had a stocking. She'd made it all week on her own with them before, when Derek had been sick. Why was now being so difficult?

She was making it difficult. And she was being clingy. Clingy, clingy, clingy. She took a deep, cleansing breath and let it out, and a little more tension leaked away. She was with Derek's family. Her family. People she knew and was starting to love. People she… Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

"I'm just—" she stuttered. "It was a minor… I…"

Derek's thumb shifted to rub her clavicle, and he didn't move.

"Seriously," she added. She could do this. She could. It was the family thing. It was the holiday thing. It was the family holiday thing, and she could do this. If she could do the family amnesia thing, she could do the family holiday thing. Family amnesia was way more difficult than family holiday. Santa and his freakish, mutant reindeer with glowing noses had nothing on brain injuries and memory loss. Right? Right. Exactly.

Another deep breath, and the noise didn't seem so grating. The cinnamon didn't seem so cloying. Hell, she half wanted to drag Derek under some mistletoe. There had to be some in the house. Somewhere. What nuclear Christmas celebration would be complete without mistletoe?

"Mere, honey," Sarah called as she plodded into the room in red flip-flops. She wore old, holey jeans and a festive, red shirt that matched her shoes. Her beat-up apron hung against her body in shambles, flour-caked and covered with other… things. Izzie things. "Come help in the kitchen," she added as she raised the wooden spoon in her hand to her lips to lick it.

"Sarah," Ellen scolded.

Sarah drew the spoon away and smiled. She shrugged as if to say, it was there, and she was hungry. It was family. Not like anyone would complain about the cooties.

Meredith stood, brushing her shaky palms on her knit pants. She could do this. She could enjoy this holiday even if she wasn't glued to Derek's side like a freakish post-it note. She could give Derek an opportunity to change out of his wet clothes and talk to his family. She could. She could do that even if her present for him sucked.

"Just stirring, right?" she asked. "I can stir. I just… Anything else is bad. For the kitchen, I mean. Bad for… I really don't want to blow anything up on Christmas Eve," she rambled, shuffling across the floor. Away. Away from Derek. "But I can stir. Maybe."

"I know you can stir," Sarah said with a nod. "You can't get out of it."

Meredith felt Sarah's thin arms wrap over her shoulders. Being hugged. Hugging. For a moment, Meredith blinked and stood, speechless, non-functional. Then her fingers found the small of the woman's back, and Meredith returned the gesture. That was… Warm. And nice.

"We're all very glad you could come," Sarah added.

"I'm not trying to get out of—" Meredith said, her voice weak and hoarse as she drew away, stunned. "But what about the mixer thing?"

Sarah grinned. "I'm conveniently forgetting about it again." She spun on her heels and clomped back into the kitchen, her heels smacking against her flip-flops in an even rhythm.

Quin barked and barked, his expressions of excitement caught in a torrent of giggles and laughter somewhere else in the house. The den, maybe. Voices. People. Everywhere.

Meredith turned with a small grin and found Derek eyeing her, his lips twitching as though he were trying hard to suppress a smile. Trying hard and failing. The grin pulled his face into a wide expression of mirth and adoration that left her breathless.

"I'm fine," Meredith said. "Go change or whatever. And talk to Stu. Do family stuff."

"Okay," he replied, his voice deep and soft, like a feather trailing up her spine. His eyelids dipped in acquiescence. He ran his fingers through his damp, tangled hair, and turned toward Stewart as she left him. Left him. Left him.

She left Derek, feeling slightly proud about that fact, and ambled into the kitchen. Ambled. In a fashion that suggested she was neither sick with nerves nor lacking enjoyment about fact that she was walking. Walking into the kitchen. Another feat to be proud of. That she'd managed that. Without looking like she was walking the plank, anyway. Well, she hoped she'd managed that.

The oven window glowed faintly golden, like the color of a sunlight shaft, and she couldn't resist peeking inside to stare at the rising globs of dough. Chocolate chips dotted each one, and they bubbled with a moist sort of sheen that spread as the dough flattened. The air smelled of warmth and dough and sugar, and it made her want to sit at the table and inhale rather than bake.

"So, why are we forgetting about the mixer thing again?" Meredith asked as she drew her fingertips down the frosted glass. Sarah looked up from her current cookie sheet and grinned. She pointed her spoon toward the mixer. Dough covered the beaters, and the bowl appeared to be well-used.

"Meredith," Sarah said. "Sister thing. Remember?"

"Oh. Well. I don't have to stir, you know. I could just… Stand here. I promise not to dart."

Sarah snorted. "Nope. You're helping. Pick up a spoon and start stirring." Sarah gestured vaguely toward the bowl across from her. Dough and chips had already been heaped in the middle. "This is technically for Santa," Sarah explained. "But our Santas usually fight over who gets to clean the plate. I figured I'd be proactive this year and just make extra batches."

"Santas?"

"Stewart and John are a pair of nightmares," Sarah said, leaning back against the stove. A slow grin spread across her face. "And Derek. Derek gets a kick out of helping put all the presents down. We usually set aside the complicated stuff for him to wrap. He's good. At wrapping. If you give him paper and some surgical tape, he'll figure it out, regardless of how wonky the box is."

Meredith smiled at the thought. Derek would do that. Have fun in those borrowed moments. She blinked, watching him behind her eyelids. He'd help Stewart and John and Nancy wrap all their weird presents, his eyes glowing with a youthful exuberance as he put his skillful surgeon's hands to use, finessing every slab of tape and every curl of ribbon. Unlike Meredith, who wrapped things until they were covered and considered it done, he'd be one of those people who focused on every fold and crease. It was all about the presentation. And Santa would never let his elves wrap stuff in ways that lacked symmetry or art. Then he'd carry stacks of stuff for his sisters' kids down to the tree, and in that moment, the moment when he'd place the boxes down against the tree skirt, make a beeline for the cookies, let himself suffer some unhealthy food for a moment, he would have kids. Even if they weren't really his.

Meredith bit her lip, leaning forward against the counter. The edge of the granite bit into her stomach, just below her bellybutton, and she sighed, suddenly wishing she hadn't volunteered to come bake cookies with Sarah. Not because she wanted to be clingy, or because she was afraid to be away and find things to enjoy on her own, but because she'd give anything to watch that. Him. Wrapping stuff. _Scissors. Tape. Retractor. Good. Explain to me, Dr. Grey, how this fold enhances the symmetry of this package._ Playing pretend as he measured oblong, curvy, weird-shaped boxes and tried to figure out how to conquer. She loved the glimmer he got in his eyes when he was playing. And being happy. And enjoying himself. It was the best thing in the world to watch. Somehow, she had a feeling, were she to catch a glimpse of it, that playful kid he harbored behind his sparkling blue eyes, she wouldn't have any trouble getting into the Christmas spirit.

"They don't wear suits or whatever," Meredith said. She leaned forward, wrapping her fingers around the spoon that sat propped up in the waiting bowl. "I hope."

Sarah smirked. "Oh, no. Nobody wears a Santa suit. Well, Mark… But that was… There was lots of beer. He and Stewart dared each other to-- Never mind." Just as Meredith began to exert force on the spoon, Sarah reached across the island, her lithe, boney fingers brushed against Meredith's left ring finger. "Oh, honey, you probably want to take that off. You'll get dough and gook caught in the setting, and it takes forever to clean out. Trust me."

Meredith clenched her teeth as happy thoughts of happy Derek bled away. "I. Off?" she blurted as she looked down at her hand. She yanked her fingers away from the spoon as though the cool wood had shocked her. She stared down at the setting.

She hadn't paid any sort of attention to it recently. She always wore it. Always. Except in surgery, but that was different. Unavoidable. Had to stay sterile. The square gem sparkled as she tilted her finger to catch the kitchen lights. Princess cut. Princess. Derek had gotten it for her. For her. Derek. She smiled. Her ring. "Take it off… But…"

"Fetch the sock, Quin. Fetch!" someone said. Someone small and giggly.

"Does he know how to fetch yet?"

Bark, bark, bark. Thump. Crash.

"Mommy, can we get a puppy?"

"No."

A chorus of disappointed sniffles wound through the air.

"Don't worry," Sarah replied. She moved to the other end of the island and pointed next to the napkin holder. Her gold rings sat in a little dish, sparkling and brilliant. "See? Mine are right here. It's not even on the same counter as the sink, and nobody would ever touch it."

Meredith clenched her fingers around her ring until the diamond hurt as it poked into her skin. She breathed. Taking rings off for baking was normal. Right? She stared at Sarah's. Sarah had done it. Sarah was… She…

"Okay," Meredith said. She yanked and plopped the little ring down into the dish with Sarah's pair of rings. Gold and platinum mixed in a shiny, expensive display. For the space between one blink and the next, she allowed herself to stare at the pile -- her ring and Sarah's pair -- and then she pulled her eyes away. It would be fine. She tried to ignore the slight dent in her skin the absent ring had left behind.

"So, how are you and Derek doing?" Sarah asked as Meredith returned to her bowl. The tip of Sarah's tongue poked out of her mouth as she ground her spoon into her own bowl. Meredith couldn't help but smile as she thought she caught Sarah's longing glance at the electric mixer. Sarah grunted. Her biceps shook as she shoveled heavy dough and mashed it. "Is he okay? He seemed okay, but… He hides things."

Meredith rolled her eyes. At least she'd slowly beat that out of him. Slowly. "Oh, he's a lot better," she said. "He's really… He's not back to cutting yet, and, every once in a while, he gets a really awful headache, but, other than that, you'd never guess he'd ever been sick at this point. He reads. And drives. Too much. He drives too freaking much. He doesn't take naps anymore. He's back up to full shifts. Three months ago, this family thing with all the noise and people would have really bothered him, but he seems okay with it for now."

"That's good," Sarah said. She raised a manicured nail to her lips and sucked it. "I was worried."

"You didn't… You were worried?"

_He's my brother, Meredith. My big brother. I've known him my entire life. I know him. He's Derek._

Meredith blinked. Sarah had seemed so sure. The whole time. Sure. But…

"Just that…" Sarah shrugged. "Maybe something permanent… Nobody on this earth deserves something like that, but I couldn't imagine Derek…" Her voice trailed away, and her expression flickered to somewhere dark and worried and frightened. Meredith sighed when she realized she hadn't been the only one freaking out. Sarah blinked, and she managed a watery smile. "But he's fine," Sarah said.

_Mere, we should go to the pound._

_Now?_

_Yeah. Now. It's our day off. We could get our dog today._

_You want to get our dog today?_

Derek had nodded, a soft smile pulling his lips into a muted expression of pleasure._ I want to get him while my shifts are still shorter. I have an appointment with Dr. Weller in five days._

_Him, huh. You have this planned out?_

_Oh, yes, _he'd said as he'd pressed up against her and breathed against her hair_. I have plans._

Five days?

_Yes, but I feel fine. I could go back fulltime, now._

_Okay, _she'd said as she'd spun in his arms to face him. She'd drawn her palm against his cheek and pulled it back through his hair, scrunching her fingers as she traveled over his ear._ Let's go find a dog._

A little bounce had pushed itself through his body, and she'd felt him shift in her grasp. He'd smiled_. Our dog, _he'd corrected her

_Yes, ours._

A smile crept across Meredith's lips. She leaned forward onto her elbows and stared at Sarah, losing herself in the fact that Derek had a worried family who'd cared for him his whole life, and for once, in that moment, she knew him best anyway.

"He's definitely fine, Sarah," Meredith replied, her voice low and thick with sureness. Strength. Her nostrils fluttered as the scent of cookies and cinnamon pushed back against her throat, and for once, she didn't feel like wincing. She wanted to inhale more of it.

Arms wrapped around her waist and squeezed. "Who's fine?"

"Derek!" she shrieked as his lips found her earlobe and blew. Startled, she leapt back from the bowl she'd been working at, tearing herself out of his arms as she struggled to right her balance.

A glop of dough landed on his chin in the commotion. Instead of attempting to catch her while she flailed, he snorted, brushing the batter away, and to her amazement, he raised his fingers to his lips and licked. She blinked as her feet finally gifted her with balance, watching his Adam's apple roll down his throat. A look of pleasure cascaded over his face, and he leaned forward to dip a finger into the bowl she'd abandoned.

"This is really good, Mere," he said. Her mouth tumbled open. Cookie dough. Derek didn't eat… When did Derek eat cookie dough?

Sarah smacked his hands away. "Ow," he said.

"You can't steal any," she snapped. "You're not making it. You know the rules."

He frowned, running a hand through his hair. Meredith bit her lip. He **still** hadn't changed yet. He had to be shivery and uncomfortable. "But…" he protested.

"No," Sarah said. She made flitting motions with her hands. "Out. Out of the kitchen while I chat with Meredith. She's mine right now."

A mischievous glimmer sparkled in his eyes. "You can have Meredith. I just wanted cookies." He leaned forward, almost making it, but Sarah had fast reflexes.

"Back off," Sarah growled. "They're for Santa. Last time I checked, you weren't a fat old man."

Derek snorted, rebuked. "Merry Christmas to you, too, Sarah-bear."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Oh, shut up, Der."

His shoulders slumped, and he puffed a melodramatic sigh through his lips. "The one time of year I allow myself cookie consumption, and you're denying me my just rewards. I see how it is."

"Out," Sarah snarled. "Out. Shoo!"

"All right," he said. "I'm going, I'm going." He brushed against Meredith, kissing her on the cheek. "You okay?" he murmured against her ear.

"Yes, I'm fine," she said. She returned the kiss, wrapping her arms around his waist. His skin still felt chilly to the touch, and when he moved, she noticed his feet sloshed. "God, Derek, you're still wet. Go take a shower or something," Meredith said. "What the hell have you been doing that you can't take the time to change out of frozen clothes?"

He blinked and pulled back. His lashes dipped low against his cheeks, and he let loose an amused chuckle. "Something important," he countered.

"More important than the fact that you'll be hypothermic soon?"

"Yes," he replied. "Much."

"Get out, Der. Go wrap something. Or change. Or do productive stuff like not freeze to death. She's mine, and she's stirring," Sarah hissed. "You had her on the plane for five hours. Probably in more ways than one." She came around the island and started dragging him off by the hemline of his sweater. He clawed at the counter, chuckling with that haughty, gorgeous laugh of his.

"I was very busy not freezing to death right here, I'll have you know," he grumbled. His fingers found purchase against the counter, and he smirked. "It's warm in here. And what would you know about having people on planes, Sarah? Stewart would barely fit in one of those lavatories. It's hard enough to maneuver with Meredith, and she's very, very tiny."

"OUT!" Sarah belted. "I've got a corrupted letch for a brother!"

Blush snaked across her skin, and Meredith found herself spluttering, unable to say anything to contribute. Derek finally spun on his heels and slunk out, cackling with laughter all the while. "I'm the best brother you've got. And, really, you're not very nice. Not sharing. Somebody's getting lumps of coal for Christmas."

"Yeah," Sarah said. "You!"

"You're an ass!" Meredith finally managed in his wake.

She heard him sniggering in the other room. "A sexy ass!" he replied.

"Enough with the swearing!" Ellen scolded. "It's Christmas!"

"Sorry," Meredith said, a cold rod of guilt plunging down into her stomach, but it lightened somewhat when she realized Derek's voice had doubled up with hers, and Mark had chimed in, along with Stewart, from somewhere else in the house. Meredith gripped the side of the counter, sighing briefly. Together. Everything felt together, and she was…

This wasn't so bad.

"Mere?" Sarah prodded.

"What?" Meredith blinked. "Oh, sorry, it's just…"

Sarah nodded. "Christmas."

"Yeah."

Sarah grinned. "You'll like it if you give it a chance."

"I think I am. Liking it. Already, I mean. It's just… There's people."

"There were people at the reunion."

"But this is…" Meredith said. She wrapped her fingers around her spoon as she started to stir. "Different. And everyone is…"

"Happy?"

Meredith grinned. "Yeah. Derek is…"

"Being an ass?"

"Well. I was going to say brotherly."

"Yeah," Sarah agreed. "An ass."

They both stared at each other for a moment. Just a moment. Sarah blinked. Her skin turned deep, fleshy red as she let loose an ugly snort. Her body trembled as she made wet gasping sounds, and when she looked up, she had streaks of tears evaporating from her cheeks. Her mascara had blotted, the first evidence Meredith had ever seen that she spent any sort of time and attention to her appearance, but it didn't matter.

"Sarah-bear?" Meredith said, a smile tugging at her lips as she watched Sarah try to recompose herself.

Sarah sputtered into laughter again. She grabbed the side of the counter and snorted as she heaved breath after breath.

"Oh, don't remind me! It's a stupid nickname he came up with when I was ten, and he was really annoyed," Sarah replied, offering the first snorting chuckle. "Mom used to make him baby-sit when Natalie and I were littler. Something about him being the most responsible and mature. Sarah-bear, I'm trying to study! he'd say. Except his voice cracked into soprano every other syllable, and I think I was taller than he was. He didn't have his growth spurt until really late."

"I think it's cute," Meredith replied, trying to imagine it. She bit her lip, trying to picture Derek as the drip of water Sarah was implying that he'd been. She'd seen pictures of him as a kid on the walls. Still shots didn't do the image justice, and she couldn't manage to conjure it in living color. She just couldn't.

Derek was the man she had to tilt up on her toes to kiss on the lips when she wasn't wearing heels. Derek was the lean but muscled warm body that settled up against her at night. Derek was Derek. His voice was more like a purr. She couldn't think of it cracking. It wasn't possible.

"Der-bear," she murmured, testing it out, trying to make the picture fit. It just didn't.

Sarah looked up and burst into fresh peals of laughter. "I would pay you money to call him that. Really, honey. Just for the look on his face when he's trying to decide if he'll let the endearment slide past without comment because he's hopelessly in love with you, or if he'll nip it in the bud. He is, you know. Hopelessly in love. When he talks about you, it's like he's high. It's adorable. Did I mention I'd pay?"

_You know what says thank you like nothing else?_

Not small and cute and crack-y voiced by any means.

Meredith shook her head without answering as she bit her lip and came to the quick conclusion that she was a little in love with what biology did to human males. She twisted her fingers against the granite countertop, imagining the tuft of hair between his pectorals. "Hmm," she said, imagining the sound of his voice in the place of hers, only to look up and find Sarah gaping at her.

"Oh, honey," Sarah said, a thrilled sort of smile splitting her face. She wiped at her eyes. The dark mascara leftovers remained, giving her a raccoon-ish look that she somehow managed to make gorgeous. Her spindly fingers brushed back her loose strands of bangs. "I think you might even have it worse than he does."

_I love you, I love you, I love you. I'm so glad you're okay_.

"Possibly," Meredith agreed. "But I can't bring myself to care."

It wasn't scary, she decided in that moment. It wasn't scary at all. She leaned into the counter, putting her weight into the spoon as she resumed churning the chips into the dough. A twitch of a smile tugged at her lips. Then her teeth showed, and the smell of dough smacked into the back of her throat.

She couldn't stop it, and she didn't care. The room blurred, and she didn't care. She laughed. She laughed, and she didn't care. Sarah didn't seem to care, either. She contributed to the baking spree with her own off-key Christmas carols, bopping to her own particular rhythm, not seeming to mind that her new sister-in-almost-law was a nutcase.

It wasn't scary.

_I just want you to have what you want..._

"I definitely do," Meredith told the cookie dough with a grin, and then she looked up to watch Sarah do her thing for a while. Two batches of cookies flew past in a whirl of warmth and laughing. Stewart came into the room to tease Sarah as she stopped after batch number three to lick her fingers for what seemed like the fifty-seventh time.

"You can't bake Christmas cookies without the Cap of Christmas-Cookie-Cooking," Stewart insisted. He pulled a floppy Santa hat over Sarah's head, nearly blinding her as the white cotton rim sank down below her eyes. She laughed, flicking the cotton ball tip out of the way. Mussed black bangs escaped from captivity as she pushed the hat back on her brow.

Stewart leaned forward over Sarah's slender neck and peppered her clavicle with sloppy kisses. "And beer. You need beer. I cannot sanction this operation if there's no beer." He leaned back, and in a twisty, skilled, one-armed maneuver, he managed to keep his free arm around Sarah's waist while liberating a chilled Samuel Adams from the fridge. He set the bottle on the counter for her and reached back to grab another one.

"Meredith?" he asked. He nudged the second bottle toward her.

Meredith shook her head. "You're missing out," he said with a melodramatic sigh. "The lights are very pretty when you're smashed, you know. And Sarah seems more on-key."

Sarah elbowed him, and he grunted, a good-humored smile sliding over his features like a liquid. The bottles clinked as he tore them open with a bottle opener. Where he'd found the metal instrument, Meredith couldn't be sure. It seemed like it'd appeared out of thin air. He hadn't reached in a drawer. Perhaps he carried it in his pocket. With Stewart? That would make sense. Perhaps he was the Christmas Beer Elf. Except, you know, entirely too tall to be an elf. How tall was Will Ferrell? Food for thought.

He reached underneath Sarah's shoulders, one long, huge hand clawing for the mixer bowl while the other tilted the beer back to his lips, but she smacked him away with the spoon she'd just cleaned off. He spluttered and spat and choked, but recovered before too much of the precious amber liquid had escaped. Her body shifted in his arms as he righted his balance.

"You know the rules!" Sarah hissed.

"I think husbands of the Cookie-cookers should get special privileges," he protested. "I did the wrapping, you know, and you shop too much, woman. Wrapping enough presents to fill a small U-haul is much harder than Christmas-cookie-cooking, even without the special fluffy hat of Christmas… cook…" His lips pursed as he searched for a word. "Cookieness." He tipped the brown bottle in his hand toward Meredith and winked. "Even without beer, I'd say! Yes, wrapping is a tough business, it is. There's cutting. With scissors. That's very hard with beer, you know. And ribbons? They confound me. Honestly. Even without beer."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "You gave Derek all your crap, and you just applied tape like a nurse when he asked, I'll bet."

"You know," Stewart observed, not even bothering to deny it, "I think Derek is the only person I've ever met who wraps things with surgical tape. What, he says when I ask. It sticks! Meredith, you need to straighten that man out. Most tape, by definition, sticks, I'd say. He's out of the shower by the way. He just needs a few more minutes."

"A few more minutes for what?" Meredith asked.

Stewart wagged his eyebrows. His palms slid down Sarah's hips. He took one last inhalation before backing away. "Nothing," he said, his voice strangely flat.

"Why do I think by nothing you mean something?" Meredith prodded. She stepped forward, coming around the kitchen island to intercept him before he left, which, really, was a ridiculous notion given that he was a foot taller and could probably bench press her with his pinky. Plus, his legs were freaking long, and she couldn't keep stride with him even if she did the splits.

"Alas, I've said too much!" Stewart said with a flourish. "My leave, ladies." He darted out. Meredith tromped forward to chase him.

"What are you hiding, Stewart?" Meredith demanded as she moved into the hallway, only to get backed into the room by Kathy.

"Hey, Meredith," Kathy said with a smile as she pushed Meredith into the kitchen, shifting to block every attempt at escape. Though her grip on Meredith's shoulders didn't cease, Kathy tilted her head back and sniffed the air, her shoulder-length, curly hair falling behind her back like a black veil. Her grin spread to her eyes, her eyelids slid shut, and she inhaled deeply as she came to a stop at the island. The small of Meredith's back thunked against the granite, and her breath skipped in her chest with a hiccup sound.

"How are you?" Kathy said as if nothing were amiss. And then the hug came. Meredith sighed, for a moment forgetting the hint of suspicion, for a moment forgetting everything. It was nice. Having people who wanted her there. Having people who… seemed to be… distracting… Stop. She blinked.

"Kathy," Meredith said, unable to stop her gaze from lingering on Kathy's white-knuckled grip at her shoulders. The woman had nails. "Right this moment? I think I'm perfect. Except I'm being held hostage in the kitchen. For some reason I haven't yet figured out."

Sarah laughed. "Hostage?" She made a dismissive motion with her spoon. "You're kidding, right? We're just happy you're here."

"Oh, yes," Kathy agreed, an exaggerated grin tearing at her lips as she removed her hands from Meredith's shoulders. "Very happy."

Meredith frowned. She brushed at her shirtsleeves with her palms. "Okay, what's going on?"

"Nothing," said Sarah. She waved her spoon like an orchestra conductor. "Keep stirring."

"I'm stirred out," Meredith replied as suspicion began to thrum deep in her bones like an ache. Her muscles tensed. What the hell? "Where's Derek?"

"In the shower," Sarah and Kathy both said at once.

"Yes, the shower," Stewart repeated from farther away.

"But you just said he was out of the shower, and now he's in the shower? Very funny," Meredith said. Energy coiled in her feet, and she used it to spring forward. She could play this game. She could. She plowed toward the hallway. She felt Kathy reach for her. Her fingertips brushed Meredith's sweatshirt. Sarah floundered. The spoon clanked against her bowl. Feet shuffled behind Meredith at the edge of her awareness.

Meredith stopped and wheeled around on her heels, a dangerous grin erupting on her face as she caught Kathy and Sarah struggling to appear nonchalant and innocent. "Okay, I totally caught you. You're trying to stop me from finding Derek. Aren't you? What awful, sappy Shepherd-family Christmas tradition will I be subjected to? Please don't tell me he's in a Santa suit. Please. Because, really, that's funny. That's— He didn't give Quin antlers, did he? That's just horrible. Giving a poor, helpless animal antlers. It will confuse him. Quin thinks he's human. Humans don't have antlers, and--" Her rambling came to a halt as she stared at the dish where Sarah's rings sat in a sparkly heap, and her world felt like it was dropping out from under her. A deep, dreadful feeling spiraled down her throat, and she swallowed. "My ring," she said.

Sarah frowned. "What?"

"It's gone," Meredith said. "My ring is gone. It was right there."

"Don't be silly," Kathy said. "It must have gotten shoved under the napkins…"

Meredith scrambled forward, shoving aside the napkin holder. A small square of clean countertop shimmered in the light. Dough and specks marked the outline where the holder had been. No ring. She shifted the dish to the side. Sarah's rings clinked and spun in the small china dish, sparkling in the bright kitchen light, sounding like dropped pennies as they shifted. No ring. Her fingers clenched against the side of the counter as her stomach started to churn. Gone. It was gone. Her… Gone.

"It's not here. Where is it? I put it right there. I put it. Where is it? Where is my ring?"

"Mere, honey, breathe," Sarah said.

"But it's my ring. It's my… I can't… Maybe it's on the floor. It could have gotten kicked under the…" She dropped to her knees, too breathless to finish her sentence. She started crawling along the edge of the kitchen island, sweeping her fingers under the overhang of the cabinets. Her skin grated against crumbs and old bits of things that brooms and even narrow vacuums nozzles couldn't reach. Her fingers stepped along the tiles, and she crept forward, inch by inch by inch, praying her hand would strike something metal and familiar. Her ring. Her eyes started to sting. She wouldn't cry. It hadn't even been two minutes yet. Maybe a kid had walked off with it, or… It had fallen on the floor and simply bounced, or…

"You didn't take it, did you?" Meredith said, pausing to wipe her palm against her cheek. She sniffed.

"Of course we didn't, honey," Sarah replied.

"I told him this was a bad idea," Kathy grumbled. "Derek!" she shouted, cupping her hands to her mouth.

"What's up?" Derek's familiar voice fell into the churning abyss of panic with her, comforting. Soothing. A warm hand slipped down against her spine, and his voice dipped low with horror. "Meredith? What's wrong?"

"My ring…" she sniffed. She tipped her head to the side and settled her gaze on Derek's shoe. Derek's black, shiny shoe. She blinked and followed the shoe to a black, pleated sock, followed by the sleek black of his dress suit. His good dress suit. She let her stare travel up his leg. Shiny belt buckle. Deep purple tie, like royalty. Fancy white shirt – Egyptian cotton. High thread count, she remembered vaguely when she'd commented how soft it was. Suit jacket. He'd pinned a sprig of lavender to his lapel. "Suit," she said, unable to stop herself from grasping at his pant leg. The coarse fabric rustled in her grip. Warmth hugged the material as though he'd just ironed it. His winter coat, folded over in his left arm, waved softly in the wafting, moving air. "Why suit?" she managed as Sarah and Kathy made hasty excuses to exit.

"I'll… go ask the kids if anyone took your ring," Kathy said.

"Right," Sarah agreed. "Maybe… It's… In the living room."

"Meredith," Derek said as she watched them depart in a blurred, calm sort of horror. Suit. Suit does not compute. A smile twitched at his lips. His eyes sparkled. "Why don't you come outside? I want to show you something."

"But my ring!" she protested as he hauled her to her feet. "It's the ring you gave me, Derek…" Suit. Why was Derek in a suit? His best suit? He… He'd packed a suit? She'd asked him specifically if she was supposed to pack any dress clothes for this trip, and he'd said no. What… The world shifted as she steadied herself against his frame. Suit. Ring missing. What?

The bitter scent of her favorite aftershave tickled at her nostrils, and warmth enveloped her as he drew his arms around her. He wrapped his coat around her shoulders, and he drew it closed for her. The inner fleece lining hugged her skin with heat and softness and mountain-fresh scents. Somebody had stuffed it in the drier, maybe. She sighed, leaning into him, feeling the panic bleed away even before she knew why in god's name said panic should be bleeding away. Because her ring? Missing.

His fingers gathered up a tent of his coat. She felt him rubbing the small of her back, and he made that soothing, shushing noise he was so good at. Lavender and cinnamon and aftershave and warm cookie dough overwhelmed her, and she sighed, leaning into his embrace. She inhaled, slowly, and he transfused more of his calm into her veins.

"It's not on the floor, Meredith," he assured her, his voice low and soft. "Can you to trust me for a minute? I promise we'll find your ring. And you'll like this."

"I will?"

"Oh, yes. You definitely will. I think."

"You're not inspiring confidence, Der," she grumbled, though she let him guide her toward the sliding door.

Even wrapped in Derek's coat and wrapped in Derek, the cold outside was a shock after standing for so long in the warm kitchen. The dark of the backyard enveloped them, and she saw his hot breath creeping over her shoulder as he stayed body-to-body with her. He was only in the suit. He had to be freezing. He had to be-- She sighed. He seemed pretty rock solid at that moment. He kissed her neck, and she forgot about protesting.

Their feet thumped against the deck, breaking the muted stillness of the snow all around them. The wooden planking had been cleared of snow, though a thin layer of frosty, sparkling particles remained behind, jammed between the grains, giving the oak a gray color. Everything glowed in the bath of yellow light slanting from the windows of the kitchen. The last bit of warmth from the house frayed and broke, losing its grip on her skin as the crisp, chilled air wrapped around her and tickled at her nose. The air smelled wet and cold and earthy. Like snow. She rubbed her arms with her palms instinctively to create friction, though she wasn't that cold. Not yet.

"Derek, it's freezing out here," she observed. "What are we doing?"

He didn't answer. She felt his palms clasp her shoulders. He squeezed her, his fingers telling her to trust him, even though he didn't say it.

Ghostly, white drifts of snow spread out from the deck in a flat plane, giving the lawn a haunting look. She glanced up into the light-polluted blue-black sky. Shimmering dots of light marked faint holes in the murky dark overhead. Hundreds. The spread of stars that hung in the sky was thicker than what would have been visible from her old home in Boston, but it was still sparse compared to the explosions of color and light Derek had shown her from his land in Seattle. Their land.

She sighed, leaning back into him. In the quiet, the distant murmur of voices from inside the house mingled with his soft breathing, but it was all muffled. Vague. She loved snow. It made everything peaceful.

"Seriously, Derek. What are we doing out here?" she asked.

"Shhh," he said. One of his hands left her, and she heard him slapping the door behind them.

One blink, and the two of them stood in darkness. The next blink, and the gazebo illuminated. She heard the scratch and moan of a window rolling up, and somewhere above her head, Stewart's booming voice broke into the muted silence. "Sorry, man. I blame the fuse box. Or something with wires. Honest. Carry on with the romantic and debonair." The window moaned again.

"The what?" Meredith said. "The romantic who and the debonair what?"

"Don't mind him," Derek said. "He's just jealous that I'm better at this than he is."

"Better at what? Derek, what?"

"Shhh," he said again. His fingers returned to her shoulders, and he gave her a subtle push.

She stepped forward, down the steps and into the snow. Her feet sank into the cold with a crunch, and chill seeped into her sneakers, but she couldn't take her eyes off the gazebo. It didn't matter that her feet were cold or that the she was starting to shiver.

Icicles hung like pointy stalactites from latticework overhead, reflecting the colors. Hundreds of colored Christmas lights spiraled up the sides of the gazebo and circled the roof, giving the carpet of snow a golden, warm caste before bleeding off into vague, gray darkness. A sprig of mistletoe hung down from the center lamp.

Derek guided her under the roof of the gazebo, the floor of which had also been cleared of snow. His arms slipped underneath the coat he'd put her in, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. She sighed at the warmth of his skin, brought closer to hers, and sighed again as he started to sway with her, almost like he was dancing, but...

"Derek, what the he—" she started.

"Mistletoe," he said, pointing up.

His lips found hers, and in the glorious haze of her body mashed against his, she heard the soft twang of guitars. They broke through the stillness, and drums and vocals began shortly after.

"What?" she asked, breathless as his body found the rhythm of the new assistance, and his swaying achieved a pattern. She let herself sway with him, leaning her cheek instinctively against his chest. He smelled like spice and warmth and her favorite aftershave. Chill bit at her nose, but it heated up when she rubbed against the fleece neck of his jacket.

The window squawked open again. "You should kiss her again!" Stewart shouted.

Derek kissed her forehead and looked up. "Stewart, could you maybe go away, now?"

"Right," Stewart replied. "Back to the binoculars."

"Binoculars?" Meredith said. "Derek, binoc-- Is your whole family watching? Your… People. Watching. Why are—"

"Don't mind him," he commented. "We're practicing." His fingers flexed against the small of her back.

"Practicing? What is this?"

"A cover song," he said. "By Now It's Overhead. It's an indie group I like."

"A song?"

"Yes," he said, his soft chuckle sending a spray of gray mist into the air. Even in the curl of music, even against him, the world seemed so desperately quiet in that moment. She inhaled, ignoring the frostbitten chill that snaked down her throat, and pressed her ear against his chest. His arms tightened around her as he shifted them to the left. "You know," he said, his eyebrows quirked with cheer. The colored lights reflected off his irises, and his skin seemed luminous. "Music."

"You were… You were thinking about a song before I started pestering you?"

"Yes. Though the dancing was spontaneous inspiration," he admitted, his voice strengthening from a murmur into the haughty, sure tones of prideful Derek.

"I like dancing," she said, sighing.

"Slow dancing. With me. I know," he replied happily. His lips dipped toward her earlobe. "Hence the inspiration." He nipped her, and she giggled, flexing her stiffening fingers against his body. She shifted and slipped underneath his suit coat, sliding her hands underneath his belt. There. Warm.

"Derek, you were thinking about this before today?"

"Well, yes," he admitted. "Do you like this one?"

"What's it called?"

"The Book of Love."

"It's definitely more…" she said, her voice falling away as she searched for the right word. The song was subdued, but happy, and… perfect. Perfect for… Them.

"Us?" he prodded, as though he'd read her mind.

"Yes," she agreed. "More us."

"It's got a beat," he observed.

She laughed. "That's helpful."

"It's almost five minutes long," he added with a murmur against her neck. "That's five minutes of first dance."

"Five minutes is…"

"And it's not country."

"Or diva," Meredith said.

He grinned. "Or sappy."

She paused her swaying, scrunching her fingers. "It's pretty sappy, Derek."

"But it's sappy in a manly way," he countered. "I can deal with this sort of sappy."

She blinked, trying to ignore the ridiculousness of what he'd just said. He was dancing, freezing cold in the snow because she liked it. He was wearing a purple flower with a purple tie to match. He'd had his siblings run interference while he played dress-up for her and planned. She imagined he might have decorated the gazebo, too, when she wasn't looking, though… She tilted her head back and stared at the lights. There were a lot of lights. And some of them had frosted over. It would have taken a lot of time… Maybe he'd told one of the guys to set them up for him over the phone. Mark, maybe. Mark would do it as penance. The mistletoe swung in the cold breeze, strangely frostless and vibrant. A red ribbon hung from the string, also frostless. She leaned against his chest and stared at the carpet of snow around the gazebo. Footprints. Fresh. He'd been out here for the mistletoe at least.

Sappy in a manly way. Hah.

"I love it," she decided, her voice cracking as she let him guide them in circles. The lights spun in a whirling, dizzy vortex of color, and she thought her lungs would collapse with the urge to laugh. Not because anything was funny. Just… she was happy. She was really happy.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you, too," she replied, no hesitation, nothing but the moment it took to say the words.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"Nope," she said.

"Good," he replied. They swayed, and she watched the world revolve around her. This was where they were getting married. In five months. Married. Except the song stopped. And the world stopped moving. He left her as he dropped to a knee and took her hand in his. Somehow, he'd managed to stay warm. He was like a freaking radiator. He--

"Derek, your suit," she mumbled uselessly as she watched his knee scrape against the snow-dusted floor.

He squeezed her hand dismissively.

"Derek, what are you doing?" she said, looking down at him. Derek. On one knee. Her hand clasped in his. She knew this was supposed to make sense. She did.

"Meredith, my life was in shambles when I met you," he explained. He took a deep breath, but he never blinked. "I didn't know who I was or where I was going or how I was going to get through the next ten minutes. I just knew that I hurt, that you were a firefly in the dark, and that I couldn't leave that bar without at least trying to talk to you."

Did not make sense. Did not compute. Derek on a knee. Saying things. Saying romantic things. Wearing a flower on his lapel. Ruining his suit. "Derek?"

"I am so grateful for you, Meredith," he continued. "I've treated you like a complete jerk, and you're still here. You're still here, giving me so many things I never deserved a second chance to have, and I love you." He paused, taking a deep breath. His stare drank her in, and she got lost in the way the lights twinkled against his eyes. Black. His eyes seemed black and endless and forever.

"I love you, Meredith. I love to wake up next to you. I love to hike through the mud with you and swim naked in my lake. I love to work with you and commute on the ferry. I love the smell of your hair, and the way your skin feels against mine when we make love. I love your sense of humor. I love that you're strong, and I know that if I ever need rescuing, you'll be there. I love that you can still be you after all the crap that's happened to you, and I love that you can still love me after everything I've done." His expression turned self-deprecating, but no less worshiping. Her fingers tightened, and she tried to find air. Air. To breathe.

"I'm not perfect, Mere. I'm far from it. If there's anything I've learned in the past year-and-a-half, it's that. But right this moment? I know who I am, and I know where I'm going, and I think the only way I could ever not get through the next ten minutes would be if you weren't here with me."

"Derek…" she protested. Why was she protesting. She was protesting like a stupid, stupid--

"You're my firefly, Mere," he added, a brilliant smile plowing across his face.

"Lightning bug," she whispered.

"Firefly."

"Lightning bug."

He laughed. "Definitely lightning," he said. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the small sliver of metal she'd been panicking over not ten minutes ago. The diamond reflected every color in the gazebo, and it sparkled against his eyes. She blinked.

"Will you marry me?" he said.

"My ring. You have…" she spluttered. "You hid. You're… That's."

His eyes crinkled up as he gave her a sheepish grin. "It would look really weird to be down here without a ring, Mere."

"But. You planned. And Sarah. She! Kathy. They!"

He nodded, an amused expression lighting up his entire face. "Yes. I'm sneaky that way."

She plopped down on her knees. Cold shot through the thin knit of her sweatpants, but she didn't care. She scooted up next to him, nose to nose. "How does your family keep tricking me with cookies?" she whispered.

"Is that a yes?"

"Derek, you can't possibly think I'd say no at this point," she said. She twisted her fingers into his hair as she nuzzled him. The cold went away. Completely. "I hope."

"No, but saying yes would do my ego wonders," he replied. "I'm kind of on my knees here."

"Yes, Derek," she said, though it came out more like a sigh. "Of course, yes. I can't believe you…"

"Did the knee thing?"

She snorted. "Yeah."

"You wanted it," he said, as if it were all the reason he needed. For anything. His expression clouded. "And then I got sick."

"Kiss her, you idiot!"

Derek rolled his eyes as the moment broke a little. He cupped a hand over his mouth and shouted toward the house, "Stewart! Put the binoculars down, man! Nothing to see!"

"Fine," said Stewart. "Don't mind me. I'm just the DJ."

"Maybe we should appease our audience," Derek suggested as he looked back at her, his lips quirking with a playful grin.

She leaned into him. "You just want a kiss."

"Maybe I do," he admitted.

"I certainly do," she said. "Derek?"

"Hmm?" he murmured as he leaned in for his prize.

She sighed, breathing in the scent of him, warm and close and hers. "You're perfect to me."


	56. Chapter 54

**Author's Notes: Christmas morning! Finally done. And it doesn't fit in one post. Who'd have thought I'd get 35k words out of Christmas when the whole thing was originally supposed to be about 5 pages? One more planned part before the wedding. Thank you so much for all the feedback -- I apologize for being so behind on replying to it all!**

* * *

For a vague moment, Meredith knew she was dreaming. Pictures sprawled behind her eyes like filaments in a larger gossamer web. Pictures of sparkling engagement rings and globs of dough and Sarah smiling. Pictures of children and snow and a sopping, wet Quin as he'd come in from another romp outside with a guilty-looking Mark. Pictures like an album, old and pasty and yellow at the edges. Flip, flip, flip through the book she went, dream fingers pausing against the soft, slippery edges of every page, until she came to the last one. Wait. Not the last one. So much more remained... She tried to turn the page again, only to fail when she couldn't find a purchase for her grip. Stuck. Her mind was stuck despite the fact that page after page after page sat thickly underneath her hands, waiting to be explored and remembered.

"But we have more pages to fill in," she said. "It's not done!"

She looked down, dismayed, when the pages wouldn't turn.

Derek stood there in a nightmarish dying clown tie and nothing else, smiling, smiling like he did whenever he looked at her. I want sex, said his eyes. I want sex and love and touching, and I want it now because you're here, now, too. His fingertips stroked the silk, blotting out the orange, red, purple, and green, the polka dots and stripes with the pale flesh tones of his skin. His perfect surgeon hands paused at the tip, which rested at his navel, just above the whorl of soft, black hair that collapsed from its spiral pattern into a thin line that led downward.

"I love the tie," he said. "But let's take it off."

She tried. She did try, but much like the page, the tie wouldn't budge. The knot wouldn't loosen even as she dug her fingernails deep into the folds of fabric. He leaned toward her, his Adam's apple bobbling along the line of his throat, and he stood there, close to her. Naked.

"We can't do this, Meredith. Not until you take it off."

His body hovered close to hers, soft and musk-scented, and the only words she could think to say fell from her lips like tears. "I'm sorry I ruined it. I didn't mean to get you a crappy tie."

"I guess we're stuck here forever," Derek replied.

Meredith's eyes snapped open, and the awful clown tie bled out of sight into mushy darkness. For one blink, she knew what she'd been dreaming. By blink number two, memories of it fled into the ether, never to be touched again. By blink number three, the mushy darkness gave her a new picture in which to bask.

His warm, even breathing caressed her neck as she lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. In slumber, he'd buried his nose and chin against her hair, her ear. His arm draped across her chest, but his hand didn't dangle. His fingers curled around her bicep in a way that made her feel loved, not like a simple pillow, but like a small piece of safety for him to clutch.

She breathed, quick, sharp, something that would have been a laugh were she to grant it any vocal power. Mere, Mere, wake up! Wake up, it's Christmas! That's what she'd expected from him. Not this. Not him drifting onward with Winkin, Blinkin, and Nod while she stared at the ceiling.

For a moment, she closed her eyes, relishing the warm feel of his bare skin against hers. Sounds below began to flutter into the room, distant and soft and blurry at first, and then loud like herding elephants. Footsteps. Talking. Clatters of pots and pans and the coffee grinder. Children. The children were all awake. She could tell from the thunder of movement through the house and the small giggles. Quin, probably caught in the whirlwind of people, skidded across the hardwood floors and thudded on the rugs, excited yips escaping every once in a while. Meredith tilted her head, but Derek blocked her view of the clock. Dim, white light broke into the room around the shades, though she imagined it would have been darker without the snow blanketing the world outside. It was definitely morning, but very early.

Derek shifted in his sleep, his hand curling tightly around her arm. He muttered something and burrowed closer. His bare knee found her thigh, he slid against her, snuggling, and she became aware of the line of warmth along her body that he provided like a second blanket. Snorting with amusement, she blew on his ear. His lips parted, and a thick, sleepy sound erupted from deep within his chest as his hand left her arm to swat at his face, only to flop against her as his unconscious will dissipated, and he submersed in dreaming again. Another set of loud thumps plodded through the hallway underneath them, and she frowned when he didn't stir at all. Derek never slept like--

She glanced again, frowning as she caught the dim reflection of light where the dark of his ear canal should have been. Her palms went to her lips, reflexive, unwanted, and she half-sighed, half-growled. Her snoring. She should have known.

Ever since his concussion and subsequent brain surgery, he'd been going to bed without the earplugs. At first, he'd just been sleeping that heavily. Sedation and recurring exhaustion had been enough to keep excessive noise from bothering him too much. After a while, though, he'd been fine, and he still hadn't needed them.

_I guess I got used to it_? he'd muttered with a sloppy grin when she'd asked him about it before work one morning.

Every once in a while, she still drove him crazy, but as a rule, he didn't need them anymore, and that was nice. Nice for him to be able to sleep next to her as a spontaneous thing instead of something requiring ritual.

She sighed. Christmas snoring as a thank you for the heart-stopping proposal and the inevitable store he'd bought her that was right that moment sitting under the Shepherds' nuclear tree. "Sorry," she whispered at him.

As if he'd heard her worrying, his discarded hand came to life, found her bicep, stroked her twice, and resettled into the safety-clutch she'd woken up with. She smiled, trying to decide whether to just lie there until something happened to make him wake, whether to disentangle herself and join the fray downstairs, or... What?

The air seemed to sharpen around her at the question, and her gaze snapped to the left as her eyes widened. The brass doorknob flickered in the dim light, its glow shifting as it moved. Moved... Why moved? The hinges moaned, and a triangular sliver of light bisected the room as it plunged toward the bed.

Meredith blinked at the glare. "Go forth, my Christmas morning minion," a soft, male voice whispered. "Remember the law."

"Nobody gets ta' sleep past six-thirty on Chrismus," a high-pitched, girly voice replied.

"Exactly," the male replied, and Meredith watched as a small, blurry form wobbled into the room.

Two-feet tall, swathed in a one-piece, sky-blue fleece pajama thing with flipper feet, the little person blinked, eyes wide and shining and excited as she sucked on her thumb and clutched a big, frothy security blanket that dragged behind her body. Her messy, brown hair fell to her shoulders, lightly curled and soft. She turned and stared expectantly toward the door.

"Go on," said the man. "Drown them in the antsy, jumpy morning cuteness all of us Shepherds have to endure." Meredith grinned as she saw Stewart's tall, lanky form shift into the light.

"Stewart!" hissed a woman. The tall form of Stewart plowed back from the door, replaced by Natalie. "What are you doing with my daughter?"

"What?" Stewart said. "She's very cute. Cuter than any other three-year-old we've got in our ranks, I'd say."

"She's the only three-year-old, Stu."

"Well, yes," he replied. "But still, very cute."

Natalie turned toward the door and peered into the room. Meredith waved at her. "Sorry," Natalie mouthed, but it was too late to stop the little bouncing bundle. The sharp patters of excited footsteps ceased. The edge of the mattress shifted, and a small, breathing, warm body crawled into the bed.

"Crud," said Stewart. "You two are decent, I hope. I forgot about--"

"You still heard us?" Meredith blurted. "I barely even whimpered!"

"Um," Stewart said. "Well, I just meant with the proposal..."

"Oh," Meredith said with a sigh. "Yes, we're..." She thought of her t-shirt, which smelled of Derek and fit more like a dress than anything else. It stopped at mid-thigh, but she hadn't yet donned underwear or anything to cover her legs. She'd stolen it from him. The shirt. Because of the scent and because it felt warmer than her own things for some reason. Not that he'd minded. He'd stared at her with hooded, sexed eyes, and purred with approval. She scrunched up her bare toes and ran her foot down his bare, hair-dusted leg, enjoying his sighing breath as he shifted closer. Mmm. He had his boxers on, but that was it. "We're more decent than we could be, at least." She thanked herself for breathlessly demanding, _Clothes, Der. We need. We can't sleep like... Your family. Christmas. Christmas-y... Sex. We had... No. Put something on. _

He'd chuckled instead of arguing with her, slipping across the room toward their suitcase with nothing but his skin to cover him, and the thoughts she'd managed to collect had disappeared. He hadn't brought her anything back from the bag.

_You bastard,_ she'd said as he'd resettled under the covers with a wicked grin.

_I want a show, too._

_Fine, but I'm taking your freaking shirt because I like it._

_Please, do, _he'd murmured.

Natalie rolled her eyes. "Come on, you big, floppy lummox," she said, tearing Meredith away from her musing. Meredith blinked, trying to ignore the squirming, small body in the bed. Kid. Kid approaching. Stop thinking about sex with Derek. Sex that would someday lead to... Kids. Had Derek given this one the talk? No, too young for that. Right? All semblance of logical thought dissolved. Kid. In the bed. Giggling and squeaking with excitement. Was this what it would be like for them on Christmas morning in a few years? Was she ready? Would she ever be?

Hi, she started to say to the girl, but the word came out as a panicked breath. She couldn't. She couldn't... She breathed. No. Could. She could. She clenched her teeth. She damned well could.

Natalie clutched at Stewart's ratty bathrobe. He windmilled to keep his balance, but followed obligingly once he'd recouped it. Natalie called back over her shoulder, eyes flashing as she smiled. "See you downstairs, Meredith."

Meredith grinned, refusing to let her lips waver as the little girl somehow located space between her and Derek and collapsed on her back over the top of their down comforter. The girl sucked her thumb as she stared at them with wide, blue eyes that looked so much like Derek's, and the comforter hissed as her small body settled with a thud. Aunt. Aunty Meredith. She could do the aunt thing if not the mother thing. Right? She could do the mother thing. Eventually. Not now, but soon.

The girl's small body shivered with pent excitement and energy, and her eyes grew wide. Derek mumbled something and rolled onto his back, tossing the arm he'd used to clutch at Meredith over his face. "Hi," Meredith said, unable to resist the urge to splay a palm against the kid's small body and rub affectionately. So small. She smiled. Aunty. Keep going, the small voice said. You can. "Sam, right?"

The girl nodded. "S'mantha," she said around her thumb.

"Samantha," Meredith confirmed. "That's a pretty name."

Samantha stared. "Unca Stu said ta' wake you up cuz we gotta do presents," she said. "And we can't do presents when peoples is still sleepin'."

Meredith nodded conspiratorially. "Well, I'm awake. Uncle Derek needs help, though, I think."

"Kay," Samantha said. Her cuteness, it seemed, was camouflage for the hyper child within. In a swift, spry motion, her blanket ended up sprawled on Derek's head. She jumped on his stomach, straddling him, as the pent energy exploded into action and flailing limbs, and then she hollered, "Wake up, wake up, wake up, Unca Derk. It's Chrismus!" while she bounced.

Derek wheezed with the impact, and the blanket over his head jerked, only to resettle. For a moment, he lay there, still and silent, collecting his thoughts, perhaps, or reassembling the puzzle pieces of sentience into something that resembled a picture, however skewed. His arm found Samantha and his hand splayed against her back.

"Are you sure it's Christmas morning?" he said, his voice muffled under Samantha's fuzzy blanket. "It seems very dark in here. I don't think Santa came yet. Go back to bed."

Samantha laughed and pulled the blanket away. His eyes widened in mock surprise, alight with all sorts of things that Meredith wished were there more often. Alight and... Just right. "There you are," he said to the girl as he wagged his eyebrows playfully. Meredith leaned on her elbow and watched as his lashes lowered in consideration, and the expression on his face changed from blinking sleepiness to a smile that matched the thrill reflected in his pupils. Lazy happiness morphed again as the skin around his eyes pinched with a longing that made Meredith feel a little sad. He growled as he rolled onto his side, his torso expanded with a deep, relaxed inhalation, and Samantha shrieked at the sudden shifting of the world below her. She resettled between him and Meredith. Her thumb found her mouth, which Derek didn't scold her for at all. He bopped her nose with his index finger and relinquished Samantha's safety blanket back into her keeping. She laughed, eyes sparkling with delight, wet thumb forgotten as she curled the blanket to her chest.

Derek leaned forward. "You were good this year, right?" Derek whispered in the girl's ear and then shifted so that he was nose to nose with her small face.

"Uh huh," she said, her expression earnest. "I went ta' bed on time and put away my blocks and dolls and I didn't cut the kitty's hair. I swear."

Derek's body shifted as he inhaled the scent of the girl, and then he leaned back on his side, a lazy, sleepy smile making him looked almost drugged. "Okay, so long as you swear," he replied. He leaned on his elbow in a position mirroring Meredith's, and as his eyes caught Meredith in the frame, the longing, pinched look relaxed into happiness and adoration. Dreams for the future sparkled behind his eyes, and Meredith reached across the small canyon between them to rub his arm.

"Hey," she said.

His lips twitched. "Hey," he replied. "It seems to be Christmas."

"It does," Meredith replied.

"Are we goin' downstairs, now?" Samantha asked. "I wanna do presents!"

Derek laughed. "All right. All right, we're up."

"Kay!" Samantha said. She crawled over Meredith, paying no mind to what body parts her elbows and feet impacted with. Meredith grunted, unable to stop from laughing as the little girl tumbled off the bed to her feet. Samantha ran to the door, excitement putting a spring in every step, billowing blanket trailing behind.

"Ready?" Derek said as Samantha thumped down the hall, her flippered feet rustling against the carpet. "It'll be a little... Well, it'll be a lot hectic."

"I'm ready if you are," Meredith replied, her voice low and throaty as she leaned forward and drank in the taste of him close to her. She scooted close to him and ran her fingers through his hair as she tasted the line of his clavicle. "You're okay with hectic, right?"

His calm, relaxed breaths fell against her skin like waves crashing to shore. "You're here," he said. "I'm ready."

The scene she found downstairs after they'd dressed wasn't really hectic so much as utter chaos. Kids ran everywhere. Adults lumbered, steaming coffee cups clutched near the folds of an endless sea of fuzzy bathrobes. A chorus of groaning good-mornings from the adults and excited cheers from the kids attacked her and Derek as soon as they hit the landing at the foot of the staircase.

_We need to go to the ER. Now._

She blinked, realizing she'd stood there in this exact spot five months ago with a trembling Derek clutched in her arms. Except now? Now, it was different, and then? Then, she didn't ever think there'd be a now like this.

She offered the room a wavering smile, trying not to flinch or appear too much in shock as a herd of adults pulled her into the living room like an honored guest, and the chaos around her spiraled into practiced order. A dazed-looking Kathy thrust two coffee mugs at Meredith and Derek as they sat down on the sofa facing the tree, though her expression revealed nothing but envy. You got to sleep in, you lucky bastards, her eyes seemed to say, though her jealousy had such a loving, sincerely smiling edge to it that the knives in her gaze were dull.

"Thank you," Meredith said, her voice stuttering and weak, as kids clustered and thumped and shuffled as they fought for seats on the floor by the tree. Kathy nodded with a grin, and the chaos continued to collapse. Adults found chairs if there were any, though Kathy and John and Mark seemed to prefer leaning against the stocking-covered fireplace. Fire crackled in the fireplace, bathing the room with a subtle warmth, and Meredith couldn't help noticing as her gaze darted from person to person to person how central she seemed to be in the spiral. No one had said a word about it, but she felt as though they'd placed her in the middle like royalty on purpose.

Her gaze ticked to Derek, who shrugged and offered her a lopsided, pleased grin. He winked at her. Trust me, his expression said. You'll like this. Except he was freaking biased. This was his family, and..._ You're here, and… That makes it perfect. _His body seemed to hum with excitement, as if he were one of the kids bouncing on the floor, and he couldn't quite keep all his energy inside.

With a sigh, she leaned against him, resting her head against his shoulder. She could do this, and she wasn't ruining it, she decided. They gave her the good seat and doted on her, and that was disconcerting, but okay. Because she could. She could freaking do the Christmas thing. Even if her present was rotten and wrapped in a wrinkled business envelope. Even then.

Derek set his coffee cup on the table with a clink and curled around her. You're here, his embrace seemed to say. You're here, and I couldn't be happier. His splayed palm rubbed her back, and in the midst of shrieking voices and laughter and words and movement, she found an island of peace and stillness. Better, she decided, as she let her eyes lose focus, and the tree lights melted into a nebula of color. Okay. Okay, she could.

Quin's tail thumped as it hit the floor over and over and over, and Meredith found his furry body jammed up against her knees, pinning her to the couch with his muscled frame. His chocolate eyes completed the happy-go-lucky expression that began with his excited panting and cocked head. "You always take his side," she said with a soft laugh. "Dogs can be grinches, you know. It's allowed."

Quin's paws found her knees. The thumping of his tail stopped as he leaned up and gave her nose a lick.

Okay, so the grinchy dog thing was out. "Get down, Quin," Derek said, and the dog sat. The thumping of Quin's tail resumed, and his scolded expression lasted for about two nanoseconds before his tongue fell out the side of his mouth and the panting resumed as well.

Meredith closed her eyes and breathed. The room smelled like cinnamon and holly and fresh things, like steaming coffee, dirty dog and Derek's musk, and she found it relaxing despite the constriction of the world around her. The room was freakin' crowded, and it seemed smaller. Smaller, now, filled with Christmas decorations and people than when she'd been sitting in a wingback leather chair where the tree resided, calling the insurance agents about the smashed rental car.

Smaller.

Except huge.

Derek squeezed her shoulder and they shared a look. She reached up and ran a palm against his cheek, her skin rasping against his morning stubble. A chuckle rumbled deep in his throat as Ellen clapped her hands. "What's first this year?" Ellen asked.

"Can Meredith open her stuff, now?" Derek asked, and for all her self-convincing that this would be okay, she couldn't breathe. Everything froze, and her eyes darted guiltily to everyone in the room. The kids pouted.

"Derek..." she hissed. "The kids... Maybe they should..."

"No, it's just," Derek stuttered. "It's part of a thing."

"A thing?"

"She definitely should," Mark offered.

"Oh?" Stewart asked. His eyes gleamed. "What is it?"

"A thing," Mark said, a smile pursing his lips.

Meredith glanced back and forth between Derek and Mark and Mark and Derek. Mark had helped Derek? With... With buying a store? For her? When had that happened?

Chris, who sat closest to the tree, was the first to move. He cradled in his beefy arms the large stack, the store, 'the thing' Derek had bought for her, and he carried it over, deftly stepping around kids and presents and other roadblocks. The stack seemed bigger, somehow, when Chris carried it. Chris was very big. And muscular. And... big. Why did they need the possibly-a-body-builder to lift her store/pile/thing?

Everyone cheered, as if their Christmas schedule hadn't been ruined and nothing drastic had happened. She was just another person in the family who happened to be opening stuff first. She stared wide-eyed as Quin moved over to lean against Derek's legs, and Chris set her pile down in front of her. She stared at the pile. The pile was an army of stuff arrayed against her ready to fire off a shot. Not just any ordinary stuff.

"What is it?" Mark called, which Meredith found weird since he already seemed to know what it was. Then she realized, by the glimmer in his eyes, that he was playing. Playing along. Was this a... Ritual? Guess the... Guess the present? She swallowed. She was a crappy guesser. She was a crap--

"Any guesses?" Natalie added, and everyone appeared to ponder the idea.

"Hopefully not socks," said Stewart. "Socks are a rotten present."

Sarah smacked him. "It only took you four years to figure that out, too."

"Tickle-Me-Elmo?" Mary offered.

"I think probably not, sweetheart," Nancy replied with a pursed grin that didn't quite reach her eyes. She seemed distant, and Meredith had the feeling that it had nothing to do with who was present this Christmas, but who was absent. Meredith could relate. She swallowed before a downward spiral of memory sucked her under and ruined her progress. Progress at being okay. Okay, and...

Not okay.

Meredith stared down at the pile of boxes by her feet as everyone offered their opinions, feeling a little like she'd been left out of a conspiracy in the room. How many people knew what all this stuff was and were guessing haphazardly anyway? Four boxes. A store. Three from Derek, one labeled as being from everyone, but was it really from everyone, or had Derek given it on their behalf to make her feel included or something? Families did that. Mailed Christmas cards that were signed by everyone, except not. Lies. On a card. At Christmas. She could vaguely recall Thatcher sitting at their dining room table, signing one pretty glittery card after another after another, making their lives look happy and fine when nothing at all was happy or fine. Because less than four months later he'd been gone. Stop. Stop, it. The little card said everyone, so, it must be from everyone. Right?

She fingered the first box, letting the paper squeak as she drew her index finger down the side. Surgical tape hugged the corners and seams on this box and all the others. The shiny paper gleamed, wreathes and other things flashing under the assault of Christmas tree lights. The ribbons that gripped the box had even been curled. You did that with scissors by scraping the edge along the ridges of the ribbon. She vaguely recalled Thatcher teaching her that before he'd disappeared. The ribbon rustled as she toyed with the curl. All for her. Derek really did wrap well, she decided as her throat clogged up, and suddenly she couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Everyone stared at her, and the world blurred.

"I'm sorry," she said, her hoarse voice sounding awful to her ears. "I'm sorry, I'm not very good at..."

"Nonsense!" Stewart trumpeted. "You're doing much better than I did. The kids thought I was rather funny my first time."

"Drunk," Sarah said.

"Funny," Stewart countered.

"Drunk, man," Mark said.

"I'm telling you, it makes the lights much prettier," Stewart said.

Mark shrugged. "I might have tried it, but I was six when I started with the Shepherd Christmas shindig."

"True enough," Stewart said with a nod. "Open something, Meredith. We castoffs are all narcissistic, self-involved masters of histrionics. If you let us start whining, it will never end."

Quin barked in agreement as Derek wrapped his arms over her shoulder and squeezed. "If you can cut open a brain," he said, "You can definitely tear open a Christmas present."

"I don't usually get to keep the brains, though," Meredith replied.

He snorted against her ear and kissed her. "All the same, please? For me, please?"

_You walked away, and now it's too late. There's too much water under the thing or whatever._

_Meredith... Please?_

He stared at her, unblinking, longing, as if just the mere act of watching her open stuff was the only Christmas present he ever wanted. She swallowed and blinked and wiped at her face. She sucked at saying no when he did that. Sucked at... Anything remotely resembling willpower.

"Okay," she said, offering him a soft, hesitant smile as she leaned forward and pulled the first present into her lap. The box was larger than a DVD case or a hardback book, and something heavy shifted inside when she tilted it.

"Guess!" John demanded.

"I um," she said. "Is this a shakeable thing or will I break it?"

Derek just winked, as if to say what kind of wrapper would I be if I didn't pad something breakable?

"That's what I love about you," she said. "You're very helpful or whatever."

His sly grin spoke for him. I know. I try.

She shook the box. The thing inside shifted with a rustle of movement. It was heavy. And clunky, and... Huh. She really had no idea. "A surge protector," she blurted.

"That would be worse than socks, I think," Stewart judged.

"Unless it was on a list, right?" Chris said. "Because..."

"Yes, dear," Natalie replied as she rolled her eyes.

Derek snorted, and she leaned against him. "What?" she said, laughter overcoming the shiver of nerves in the pit of her stomach. "I really have no idea." She rolled her head back and stared up at him, resisting the urge to kiss his throat as she settled, pulling the box closer. His arms wrapped underneath hers and pulled her close. He watched over her shoulder, and she felt him breathing against her neck. There was no tension in his grip, nothing expectant or nervous or fast-paced about the way he inhaled and exhaled. He knew she'd like it. Knew. But when did Derek ever not know something? Derek was a freaking master at appearing cool and confident even when he really wasn't at all. Unless he was drugged perpetually on morphine and depressed. But that was... That was another thing entirely. And she... No. Stop.

Present. For her. From Derek. She scraped at the first line of tape, careful not peel off a layer of the paper with it.

"Uh oh. She's one of those," Kathy said.

"Those?" Meredith said.

"Wrapping paper is not art. You can rip it."

"It's pretty."

"See?" Kathy said. "One of those."

Meredith snorted as she removed the paper, giving it a reverential sort of look as she folded it neatly and put it beside her hip. That would... It was pretty. And it was from Derek. Even if it was crappy paper from CVS, it wasn't crappy. Because it was her first Christmas present from him, and it... It just...

She blinked, trying to ignore the thrum in the room. The impatient thrum. Get to it. Open it. We want to see. What the hell is it? Damn it, open the box! Nobody said anything, as if they knew it was a delicate moment, but she could tell they were all thinking it, everyone except Derek and Mark. Mark stood, relaxed and uncaring by the mantle, a smooth grin on his face that told her in no uncertain terms he knew exactly what was in the box. Derek seemed to be relishing the fact that she was folding wrapping paper and taking forever, as if he wanted to bask in the moment as long as he could, and his confident, relaxed... relaxation whatever continued.

Tearing the box open was easier. She didn't care about the tape. Tape could be ripped and torn asunder and balled up like a sticky, projectile weapon. It could-- She gasped when she opened the box and stared at the first of Derek's three presents.

Izzie, Cristina, Alex, and George stared back at her, posed and waving, through a shiny pane of glass as though they resided in the world behind a mirror. Bunny ears sprouted behind George's head, courtesy of Alex, though George didn't appear to notice. The sterling frame gleamed in the light. She pulled the frame out of the box and stared at it. She recognized the trees behind her friends. She recognized the bench. Seattle Grace, the sign behind them proclaimed, as if the surgical scrubs they all wore weren't enough of an indicator. Everything behind them was still green and alive, and no one wore coats, which meant... It meant Derek had done this a long, long time ago. Months. He'd been planning that long, and she gulped, suddenly feeling just a little bit intimidated again. Before... Possibly before he'd even gone back to work. Definitely before he'd been able to drive. How had... Had he actually stooped to asking Mark for a ride so she wouldn't know about it? Which... That was... Her gaze shifted to Derek, who stared at her with unblinking eyes. The picture frame in her lap felt weighted and huge and... Her present... She'd gotten it for him last week. With a simple phone call.

"When did?" she managed, unable to finish the question.

Derek's arms tightened around her. "I noticed you were missing some very important knickknacks," he said, his voice a soft murmur.

"You got Cristina to pose? And Alex? For a picture?"

He shrugged. "I'm their boss."

"We ganged up on them," Mark added.

"Thank--" she managed. "Thank you. I mean... It's... Thank you." She held the photo in her lap and stroked the frame. He hadn't bought a store. He hadn't... He... She blinked and stared at her friends staring back, and she melted. He didn't even really like her friends, particularly Cristina, but he'd... He knew she liked them. But... "How is this a thing?" she blurted.

Derek snickered. "Keep going, and you'll see. Open the big one next."

She glanced down at her toes and brushed her fingers lightly against the big one. The one supposedly from everyone. "This?"

"Yes," Derek said with a nod as he took the beautiful picture away and set it on the table, out of the way.

She set the next two presents from Derek to the side and lifted the box into her lap. It was freaking heavy. And it clanked. And rustled. And... Things. Many, many things. "Ten surge protectors!" she guessed before anyone had a chance to prod her. Mark snorted. The kids laughed.

Derek shrugged. "I haven't seen this one. It very well could be."

"Right," she replied. "You wrapped it, Romeo."

His hand rubbed her arm as she gently peeled back the paper, and Derek settled against her like he had with the first present, awed and breathing and calm but happy. She folded the wrapping paper and set it aside. The box opened with brief, hissing complaints, and she found her hands digging into a maze of tissue paper, and...

Pictures in frames. Stacks of pictures. Stewart and Sarah and Lindsey and Annie smiled back at her, only to be replaced by Kathy and John and their children. The rest of the Shepherd subsets marched past her eyes, and she smiled when she came to a smaller, old, black-and-white one of Ellen and a man who looked exactly like Derek. Behind that, she found two small boys staring at her from a silver frame. A very young Derek peered back at her with a two raccoon eyes and a grotesquely swollen nose, and Mark held his taped up, plastered fingers as though they were a trophy.

Derek spluttered. "When was--"

Mark shrugged. "You said pictures of our families, man."

"But I thought--"

"Flip to the next one," Mark commanded.

Meredith did, and she found the Mark she knew smiling back at her with a shit-eating, girls-want-me grin, his arm over Derek's shoulder as though they were bending over to huddle for a football game or whatever. Derek had on the cream-colored cap that Meredith had given him, and he smiled, more reserved, but smiled. Gaunt paleness hugged his face, proclaiming him as not exactly healthy, not exactly the correct weight anymore. Meredith swallowed, the lump in her throat almost too big to let air through.

"Derek," she whispered as her eyes started to blur again. He'd posed. For a picture. With Mark. While he'd been sick.

The time line began to fall into place. Six weeks after. Maybe eight. Had to be. When he'd first found out she wanted to start building up her picture collection. He'd stopped wearing the cap by then for the most part, though whenever he'd gone somewhere with people he knew, he'd tended to still don it, almost like a security blanket. A way to keep people from staring or trying to find the scar he hated so much.

"Where are we going to put all these?" she whispered.

"Keep going," he said, squeezing her shoulder. "It's a thing."

She picked up the next box. It was big, too, but it didn't seem to shake. "A dictionary," she proclaimed, and everyone groaned.

"You're very bad at this guessing thing," Stewart said.

"Yes, Derek is far too mushy to give you a dictionary," Mark said.

Derek snorted. "I'm not mushy."

Everyone in the entire room grumbled at once. "You're mushy."

Blush tore across Derek's skin, and Meredith laughed, leaning back to kiss him. "I like mushy," she said.

"But it's a manly mushy," he protested.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Like there is such a thing."

The room tumbled into silence again as Meredith folded the paper for the third package and set it next to the other two by her hip. She pulled the contents out of the box. It was a large purple binder with a dried, pressed lavender encased in the plastic sleeve on the front. She cracked it open. A white page greeted her. In the center, Derek had mounted a picture of the lake by Derek's trailer. One of those big blue birds she liked stuck its head out from the reeds. Below the picture, Derek had stuck a small business card. She read the name and address and, finally, the header at the top made sense. Alan Hue, architect and landscape design. The top of the page proclaimed the picture to be, "Our First House," though the house itself was missing.

"That's where they'll go," Derek said. "The knickknacks, I mean. At some point. I made an appointment with Alan for when we get back."

Shivery warmth pawed through her body, and she couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe, and she didn't care, and every nervous thought pressed out of her body as though she were the flower press that'd flattened out the lavender at the front of the book. Her eyes pinched shut and squeezed out tears, and Derek wrapped himself around her.

"There's still more, you know," he whispered against her hair.

"But I..." she gasped. How could there be more than that? She didn't... She...

"You're going to have trouble topping this next year, sweetheart," Ellen proclaimed, a warm, earthy smile caressing her face as she shuffled to her feet and walked around to stare over the back of the couch at all the pictures.

"I'll worry about that next year," Derek said. "Flip the page, Mere."

She did, and she found a picture of smoke and chaos and badness. Derek Blows Up The Kitchen At A Tender Young Age, the title said.

"Hey!" Derek growled.

Sarah burst into giggles. "I was wondering if that would make it through the wrapping process!"

Meredith leaned forward, gasping for breath as laughter overtook her. "It's all fabricated lies," Derek assured her. "That's a stage actor. And that smoke is CGI. Seriously."

He flipped the page for her with a gruff sigh, and she blinked, her laughter dying as a blank page greeted her. She read the title. "Our first Christmas." She looked at Derek, whose wounded eyes had gone back to sparkling. She raised an eyebrow in question. Nobody had cameras.

"Oh," Stewart said as if the secrets of the universe had been revealed to him. "Now, I get it! It's a thing!"

"Last one, Meredith," Derek said, laughter in his gaze. "Go for it."

She picked up the last box, barely noticing as Derek pulled the stuff off her lap to make room for it. The last box was smaller and more square than the previous three had been. It didn't shake at all. "A cell phone battery," she said, producing more groans.

"Come on, honey," Sarah said. "You have to at least try to guess."

Meredith bit her lip and smiled. "I don't really have a lot to compare this to," she said, but for once, she didn't find an apology falling from her lips. "It's like asking me to guess food ingredients."

Derek's arms tightened. Stewart snapped his fingers. "So, this means we get a lot of guesses about photographs next year?" The tension broke like a tide on the rocks, and Meredith exhaled, relaxing.

She opened the last box and stared.

"So you can make more," Derek said. "It's charged and ready to go."

A camera. He'd gotten her a very nice digital camera. She bit her lip and took it out of the box. "So, this is the thing," she said as all the pieces fell into place. "This is why I had to go first?"

He grinned. "Yep. Definitely a thing. It would be silly to take pictures of Christmas after Christmas is done, don't you think?" He held out his hands, and she relinquished the gift. He pressed a button. The lens popped out and the little silver camera whirred. "You just hold this button down to focus. Press firmly to take the picture."

The world flashed white, and she blinked. "See?" he said, grinning as she blinked the sudden, painful blindness away.

"Hey!" she shrieked, leaning forward. "You always do that! Give me that!"

_I look good at any angle. _

She focused on his face through the view window and snapped off a picture. "My pictures are still better," he murmured as she pulled the camera from her eyes. The device worked pretty well. Very easy to use. Sort of like her phone, which was probably why he hadn't gotten her a regular camera that used film. Film. That would certainly be a way to confound her. Film and winding... tangly filmy things. And focusing the lens on her own. Yikes.

"Thank you," she said. She leaned into him and kissed him along the jawline, the camera falling into her lap as her grip relaxed.

"Okay, okay. This is a G-rated Christmas, folks," Stewart proclaimed. "Sadly."

Meredith laughed and withdrew. For a moment, she didn't know what to do. Didn't know at all. Who to take pictures of first? Excitement hummed along her muscles and sinews like a primal force. Who... She stilled as the primal force found a target, something that seemed entirely right, though it wasn't a picture for her album at all.

She pulled the picture album back onto her lap and stuffed the wrapping paper from the first present into the first sleeve page set aside for their first Christmas. A lot of firsts. She was glad she'd saved the paper. She smiled at her work, trying to ignore how everyone stared at her with pleased smiles, and put the book back on the coffee table. She raised the camera, unable to stop her excited grin. Now, to take some--

"Wait!" she blurted when she saw Chris moving toward Derek's stack of presents. "Not yet. Please. Maybe later?" Her gaze fell onto her crumpled envelope, sitting forlornly on the top of a huge box, which sat on top of other huge boxes. She glanced at Derek, who gave her a relaxed, happy smile. Whatever you want, Mere. She wanted to kick herself for delaying things for him. If he felt, when he opened things, even a quarter of the thrill she'd discovered from opening hers, well... She sniffed and leaned against him. "Sorry," she muttered. "We can do Derek's pile, now."

"No," Derek said. "That's okay. I can wait. You can bask. Though, I swear, Mere, there's nothing you could give me that I wouldn't like."

"Socks, maybe," Stewart said.

"I like socks," Derek said.

"Dog hair!" shouted Mary.

"Makes good pillow stuffing," Derek replied.

"Poo?" Samantha said as she looked at them, wide-eyed.

Derek stilled for a moment. "Fertilizer is important, you know."

Meredith laughed at that. "What's fertzil... Fer..." Samantha began, scrunching up her nose, but a bunch of impatient children buried her words with, "Me first, me first, me first!"

Chris shrugged. "All right. How about the kids then? Everyone is antsy."

The kids did not appear to have any system whatsoever like the adults did, which was probably good, considering they had about as much collective patience as a recently awoken Starbucks addict in the coffee line on a Monday morning. Chris acted like a referee, handing out present after present with arching throws like he was passing footballs, until wrapping paper flew everywhere and shrieks and laughter and ribbons curled through the air like confetti in Times Square on New Year's, all while Kathy darted around with notebook paper and a pencil, jotting down what everyone received. How she could keep track of it all and not miss a matchbox car or a mutant robot or a doll, Meredith would never know.

For a while, Meredith took pictures every few seconds, snapping off shots with glee. They probably weren't that good, but one or two might be fine for future consumption, might work in the album section Derek had labeled for their first Christmas. She took pictures of the kids and the tree and the mantle and anyone who would smile for her, though she couldn't seem to get one of Stewart where he hadn't contorted his face to look stupid.

Her frenzy slowed when she turned to Derek, who sat with his chin cradled in his palm against the arm of the sofa, his eyes hooded as he watched the kids open their presents. He offered a playful comment now and then, but other than that, he seemed engrossed and lost and off in his own little world, a soft smile tugging at his lips... He stroked her arm idly, as if it were a habit more than anything else, but it made her feel warm and wanted anyway.

"Uncle Derek, can you open this?" Mary pleaded, handing him a cardboard box with an imprisoned Barbie doll peering out from behind the plastic pane. He blinked and twitched as though he were liberating himself from some sort of dream.

"Sure," he said. He yanked a pocket knife from his front bathrobe pocket. A pocket knife. Like he knew about and had been prepared for all present-opening eventualities. She blinked, realizing it was no ordinary pocket knife he carried.

"A pocket scalpel?" Meredith blurted as she dropped her arms and stared. "You carry a freaking pocket scalpel? On Christmas?"

His lip twitched. "What else am I supposed to cut surgical tape with?"

"Scissors?" Stewart said.

Derek shook his head and set Barbie's box against his lap, cradled between his thighs. The blade clicked into place. It gleamed, sharp and ready and full of danger.

"Don't hurt her!" Mary whispered.

He leaned in close. "I'm a very good surgeon," he told her seriously. "Don't worry."

Meredith took a picture of him. Like that. Staring with unadulterated concentration as he cut the little plastic ties and shimmied the knife through endless reams of surgical tape and padding. His hands didn't shiver with effort. His eyes didn't pinch with the ache of concentration. Noises and laughter didn't draw his gaze away from the task at hand, and Meredith couldn't help but swallow back tears, salty and painful down her raw, emotionally-racked throat.

Mary, oblivious to what Derek had just done, gave a squeal of glee when he handed her the doll. He looked up at Meredith with a twinkle in his eye, as though he'd just finished a craniotomy instead of doll liberation. She snapped off a picture, catching the moment forever, or at least until she smoked the memory card in the camera. He blinked, slow, like a bird of prey as he recovered from the flash.

"My pictures are still better," he said with a mischievous grin. "See, the fun thing about a digital camera is, if you get a good printer, you never have to take your photos to a developer, and I have plenty of knickknacks myself, you know. On a certain phone."

"Derek..." Meredith said. "I took those, not you."

She leaned back against the arm of the sofa and kicked out with her feet. Her cold toes found his body, but drat that stupid bathrobe, he was prepared. He caught her and started to rub the soles of her feet, creating friction. She sighed, trying to maintain her glare.

"What?" he said, eyes sparkling with mischievous glee. "I'm just saying we could have some fun."

"We could," she replied.

"G-rated!" Stewart insisted.

After the kids were all happily playing with their favorite presents, the adults opened their presents in clockwise order around the room. Meredith lost herself in the oohs and aahs and loving, "How did you know I wanted this!" exclamations. Natalie even seemed happy about her surge protector. When Derek's turn finally arrived, she'd forgotten to be nervous, though her stomach started churning again as Chris brought Derek's pile to him.

Derek opened the larger presents first. A navy sweater from his mother. Some fishing thingies from Stewart, which Derek appeared to be delighted about. A one-a-day Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar from Mark, which had Stewart complaining that he should have thought of that. She lost track of everything in the blur, settling against Derek and just enjoying the warmth and the rumble of his chest as he made comments about his spoils.

When he got to her envelope, she cringed. "I'm sorry if you don't like it," she blurted.

He clucked at her. Hush. Just hush. He held her prisoner in his arms as he fingered the envelope. "Hmm," he muttered as he stared at it and ran his hands along the wrinkled lines of paper. He held it up to the light, trying to see inside. "Well, it's not a gift card," he told the room. His eyes sparkled as everyone in the room offered a torrent of guesses.

"She adopted a star and named it after you?" Kathy said.

"She wrote a check," Mark said. Everyone stopped to look at him. "What, I write checks when I'm desperate."

"Tacky, man," Stewart said. "I bet it's sex coupons."

"Hey, that's a good idea," Mark said. "I have to do you on Thursday in a maid outfit and stilettos. I like that."

"G-rated!" Ellen grumbled as Nancy collapsed her head into her hands and sighed.

Mark shrugged and leaned against the mantle.

Meredith rolled her eyes, thanking god or whatever that it wasn't a check or sex coupons in that envelope, except Derek squeezed her anyway. "If it's a check it's okay," he said, low enough that only she could hear.

"What about sex coupons?" she whispered back.

"Definitely okay," Derek rumbled.

"Tickets to Disney World!" Mary guessed, and all the children ooohed and shuffled closer.

"Okay, seriously," Meredith blurted. "Open it, and get it over with."

She sighed and tried to shift, but Derek wouldn't let her move, and so she put her eyes against his chest and squeezed them shut. She didn't have to watch the reaction. The paper of the envelope crinkled as Derek opened it. Please, like it, she thought. Please, please, please. The word became a streaming mantra in the folds of her brain, until all her muscles had clenched and she hung there in the midst of tension, unable to find release. Please. Please, please, please. She'd feel awful if he didn't. Awful. He'd made this Christmas perfect for her. It was the least she could-- At least it wasn't a check. Or a stupid star. Or something he wouldn't get why she'd gotten for him, or even really appreciate it beyond the fact that she'd gotten it for him. She didn't need to give him sex coupons. If he wanted her in a maid outfit, she'd do it anyway. Though, he might have to pay her back a little for that one. Perhaps with strawberry cheesecake ice cream on his-- Stop. Bad thoughts. She vaguely decided that she hadn't scraped the bottom of the barrel after all. Stewart and Mark seemed like awful gift givers. Awful and...

Derek stilled, his breath hitched, and she barely had a chance to peer cautiously at his frozen face before the world spun around, and she found herself bereft of him. He stood like he'd been launched from the sofa via a springboard as he peered at the tickets with a wide, watery-eyed expression. A brief, clipped syllable escaped his lips before words arrived. "Seriously?" he blurted as he stared at the tickets in his hand. "Club seats? Stewart couldn't even swing seats in the nosebleed section!"

"I know," Meredith said, tension overwhelming her as she waited for the verdict. Why wasn't there a verdict? I like it. He could say that. Right? He'd dumped her on the couch. That was bad. That was... Right? "I saw..." He'd flailed and nearly broken the phone. "Heard..." The pleases she couldn't resist had fallen from his lips about fifty times. That exact heart-melting tone he never seemed to realize was irresistible, though he never hesitated to employ it. "You begging with him on the phone."

Derek frowned, tearing his eyes away from the envelope to peer at her. "It wasn't begging," he insisted, his eyes flicking back to the tickets before he'd even gotten the last syllable out. His lips curled in a vague smile that flamed out as quickly as it had arrived. His gaze darted to Mark first, and he made a jerky gesture that could have been pointing. At the tickets. Then Stewart. Stewart smiled. Meredith wished he would say something. I like it. That would be nice. Because it seemed sort of like he wanted to... Do something. Like bolt. Or scream. Was it that bad? Why wasn't he smiling?

"Talking in a way that suggested desperation or something," Meredith corrected herself, not wanting to ding his ego too badly. Though it really had been. Begging. Pleading. Beggingpleadingmoaning. He liked it. Right? He had to like it...

"It was begging, man," Stewart said, but Derek didn't even look up.

"Club seats, Meredith," Derek said. "This is…"

"That's good right?" Meredith bit her lip. "I mean, I asked Stewart what to get, but..."

Stewart snorted, indignation pulling at his expression as he tightened his stance at the elbows. He cocked his head to the side and gyrated at the waist. "I'll have you know I am well-versed in picking perfect seats for all sporting events that may at some point involve Madison Square Garden."

"But can you speak Bachi?" John asked.

"Perfect seats?" Derek parroted weakly as he blinked and stared. "It's... How did you... Stewart was in on this? But he said..." His gaze hardened as he realized what had been said. "I hate Star Wars."

"All her, man," Stewart assured him, ignoring the dig. "She just wanted to know what seats to get. You like your hockey in the club section, I thought. Row ten." She couldn't decide if Stewart's deferral made her feel better or worse or... She thought she could read Derek. She thought. But this? This expressionless, jittery, pale, weird tension? It was expressionless. And jittery. And pale. And weird. And that was all she got from it.

Derek nodded, staring at the tickets. "Row ten. Center ice so that you can see into the corners…" His voice trailed away, and he swallowed.

"My mother," Meredith blurted, trying to fill the thrumming silence with something other than, well, silence, though, really, she mostly just wanted to shake him. Do. You. Like. It. The answer was one freaking syllable. Very easy. Unless it was maybe. But how did someone maybe like something?

A weak, shaky breath escaped his lips as his torso condensed. "What?"

"Boston," she said. "We lived in Boston, Derek."

He blinked, finally meeting her eyes for more than two seconds. "I know that."

"She sort of... Fixed... Well, she... It was this thing. Car accident. Perfed bowel."

"Fixed?" Derek said, an eyebrow raised. "Perfed bowel?"

"The Bruins' owner," Meredith clarified. "He would have died."

"What? You what?"

"I called in a favor. Sort of. He was happy to help."

She'd stared at the phone for over two hours after she'd hunted down the man's number from her mother's dusty Rolodex of possibly exploitable contacts. Rangers versus Bruins at Madison Square Garden, when she'd known Derek was going to be in Connecticut. With her. Over Christmas. And he'd begged. Beggedpleadedmoaned. Perfect. Right? Seattle didn't have a hockey team. He couldn't go any time he wanted anymore. He... Get it over with, she'd thought. Get it over with. Call. Call. Call. She'd bit her lip, nearly crumpling the Rolodex card, far from interested in being offered condolences about her mother's recent death or explaining why she was calling. Hi. You don't know me, but I'd like some freaking hockey tickets for my rabid fan of a fiancé. Do you mind? But it had been for Derek, and she hadn't been able to think of anything else. This had... This had just seemed right.

Derek's strange expression collapsed into one of concern, as if he realized the personal cost of what she'd done. "Mere..."

"There's two tickets," she explained, cutting him off. This was Christmas. This was Christmas, and she wasn't going to let Ellis do anything other than save it. Well, hopefully save it. Because she still couldn't figure out if Derek was pleased or not. "So you can take... Whoever, or..."

That got Derek's attention. He finally let himself put the tickets down on the table, and he collapsed back onto the couch with a small, breathy sigh. "You're not going with me?" He blinked. His pupils, sharp as pinpoints, didn't seem to be taking much in, but he took that in. He took that in, and his voice dripped with disappointment.

"I figured you might want to take... Stewart. Or something." Or Mark, she realized. Derek seemed to have made more progress with Mark than she'd been aware.

"You're kidding, right?" Derek exclaimed. "Mere, it's row ten. In Madison Square Garden. Tomorrow night. Our first Christmas. And we have perfect seats! I'm not taking Stewart or Mark or anyone else. I'm taking you." He nodded definitively, but then his sure expression faded. "Unless you don't want to go..."

"He likes his dates to be shorter than him," Stewart offered. "It's a guy thing."

"Stewart, hush..." Sarah said.

"Sure, I want to," Meredith said. "It's just, I thought. A guy thing. And I..."

Derek shook his head and kissed her. "You know the rules, now."

_High-sticking isn't allowed._

_Oh, really? What about... This._

He hadn't been able to recite any more rules after she'd slipped her palm underneath the waistband of his loose sweats.

"Well, yes..." she said as blush crept over her skin.

He kissed her again, his lips lingering next to hers. She thought she heard Stewart shouting about G-ratings in the background, but everything outside their bubble blurred into a monosyllabic roar of sound. His breath hit her face, and his eyes sparkled centimeters away as he stared at her, concerned, enamored, and drowning all at once. "You liked watching that last game," he said, his tone perplexed, "I thought..."

"I loved it, but..."

His index finger found her lips, shushing her, and his gaze darted to the side. "Somebody take the camera," he said.

"What?" Meredith heard a voice mutter. "Why?" Ellen, maybe? Ellen, or... Kathy. Kathy sounded like Ellen.

"Because I'm going to kiss my fiancé on our first Christmas, and I want a picture of it," Derek said.

Meredith gasped as she felt the camera leave her lap. "You like it? The tickets? You like them?"

"Oh, yes," he replied. Finally.

"Really?" she said, her voice almost pleading.

The smile she'd been looking for all along appeared on his face like a lighthouse in the stormy dark, overwhelming and hopeful and there. Salvation. She blinked, trying not to cry anymore. She hadn't ruined anything. She hadn't. She'd...

"It's even better than a clown tie," he said.

"Derek..."

"I'm serious," he whispered. "You're here. I would have liked the tie."

"Liar."

He shrugged, nuzzling closer. "Maybe a little."

"Are you lying, now?"

"Yes."

"Derek..."

"I was underestimating," he said. "By a lot."

"Oh."

His smile lengthened, and, as she leaned into his neck, she realized. His heart thumped underneath his skin like a jackhammer, pounding like thunder against her eardrums. His skin shook with subtle tremors, like he couldn't quite sit still. His eyes, fever bright and glistening... His skin had flushed red, and he couldn't stop grinning. Excited. She finally figured it out. He was that excited. Like one of the kids on the floor, trumpeting about their new toys. She'd... Wow.

"You're perfect, Meredith," he said. "It's perfect."

"Your heart is racing," she replied, petting his jugular with her fingertips.

"Hmm." The rumble of sound tore through him as he purred against her. "Yes, it is."

"Kiss her," Stewart whined. "My trigger finger is getting tired."

"Okay," Derek said, and she lost her world to the steady timpani beat of his heart as he devoured her.


	57. Chapter 55

**Author's Notes: Well, here it is at long last! This part is sort of a last minute retrospective to get us up to the big day. I hope you like it :) I went through all my old feedback finally and replied to it all! Well, I dearly hope I did. If I missed anything, like a question or whatever, please feel free to PM me :) Anyway, thank you so, so much for all the feedback on this story. It's really kept me going even when things have become a struggle.**

* * *

Derek Shepherd wanted Meredith.

As he climbed out of his Lexus into the cool, drizzly March air and leaned against the wet, slippery metal of the door, his mind broke apart. He'd been awake for over forty hours, and he'd managed to hold it together for that never ending shift and then some, but now? Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping, with her, he wanted. His joints ached. His head hurt. She would take it all away. He didn't want to be standing – lying, lying, lying down, with her, her wanted. The world swam whenever he blinked.

Shouldn't have been driving. Shouldn't have... Bad.

His nostrils fluttered as fine rivulets of precipitation collected against his chilled skin. He breathed. The air smelled wet and earthy and full of life. His fingers slicked down the bridge of his nose as he snorted, sending a cloud of chilled, misty air into the space around him. A car drove past, kicking up a spray of water at him.

He moved out of the street at a lumbering pace and stood on the sidewalk, blinking. Despite the dull gray that tempered the world, everything felt like it was sparking with electricity. Snap. Snap. Pop. Snap. Like the way she looked at him. His eyes focused on the lush green of the trees that lined the walk, the bright flare of life.

Life.

He'd saved a life. By himself. He'd been on his feet for twelve hours performing complex emergency surgery, forcing his fingers to perform repeated, tight, focused movements, the sharp smells of antiseptic and internal body matter – brains, blood, bones – winding through his nose. His joints had been screaming by the end, arthritic, crying.

And it felt fucking great.

Derek smiled, running his fingers back through his damp hair, barely noticing the pull when his knuckles found neglected tangles and wet loops, catching and coming to a halt. He'd stayed long enough to do the first neuro check after Mr. Kowolsky had woken up. The older man's eyes had been glazed, looking dull and stoned with morphine, and Derek hadn't expected much from the man as Derek had run through the routine that never seemed to feel routine anymore.

_You were in an accident_, Derek had said, his voice a low, sympathetic murmur. _Everyone is fine. Your wife will see you very soon. Can you tell me the date? Can you wiggle your fingers and toes? _

The questions had been answered absently, as if they only made a superficial sort of sense, as if Mr. Kowolsky hadn't quite caught up with the situation. But that had been okay.

Bouncing back from that kind of surgery and that kind of injury? Mr. Kowolsky would be in the hospital for a long time, and, particularly since Derek's accident, Derek had felt a deep, understanding kinship beyond the normal requirements for good bedside manner. A kind of kinship that left him coming home at night feeling more fulfilled and more tired all at once.

_Your wife is here_, Derek had repeated as he'd checked the man's pulse and given him a touch of reassurance. _Everything will be fine. Take your time. The brain is a complicated thing. Healing takes a while._

But then, as Derek had been walking out of the recovery room, clipboard in hand, Mr. Kowolsky had done something unexpected. _Thank you_, he'd said, clearly, coherently. _I wasn't ready to leave my wife._

Derek had smiled, his thoughts shifting elsewhere in the sudden rush of pleasure over the words. My wife, my wife, my wife. Not yet. But... Soon. Derek had booked off, that one thought lingering like a high or a warm blanket or something else he needed. Meredith. His wife. Soon.

Two months.

He needed her. Because he wanted to show her, and he just wanted... Her. Her company. The day had been rather momentous.

He'd saved a life. He felt like his body was going to shut down and fall to aching pieces, except he felt fucking great. Because he'd saved a life. And his body only felt like it was shutting down because it damned well deserved to do that after more than forty hours of slave labor for the crazy doctor at the reins. Forty hours. Dr. Derek Shepherd was back. Back to doing what he loved, unsupervised, unhindered, feeling like crap only because he was supposed to feel like crap, and it was one of the best fucking highs he'd ever experienced outside the realm of her.

Meredith.

Derek laughed. And laughed. And laughed, sending a spray of mist into the air. Passersby stared at the crazy, waterlogged man, but he didn't care. He was getting married in two months, and he hadn't seen her since before he'd scrubbed in. He'd saved a life, and, now, he wanted the frosting for the cake.

Meredith.

The rest of the world didn't seem very important right then.

He blinked, leaving the security of the car for the vast expanse of sidewalk. One step, two steps, three. Twelve feet, he wandered before he remembered he needed to put money in the meter. Money. Pay. Quarters. He rummaged through the contents of his right coat pocket, annoyed as the water made his fingers slip against his wallet and his cell phone. He wanted to see her then. Right then.

The parking meter clinked as he fed it a quarter. A few minutes. That was all. He just wanted to see her. He put a second quarter in the meter for good measure and wandered back across the sidewalk until the rain stopped, reduced to quiet tapping overhead as the multicolored store awning blocked the drizzly onslaught.

A frilly dress in the display window blocked his view, and so he stepped to the side, blinking, searching. This was the right address. The right address. Where was... The glass seemed to flash away from him as he stared at the rows and rows and rows of dresses, bows, ribbons, lace, buttons, zippers, clothing racks, shining fabric...

This was where Meredith had dragged him, wallet in hand – _I don't want Thatcher to pay for it_, she'd snarled, _and Susan is trying to make him pay for it as some sort of sorry I abandoned you present, so we have to do this, now, before they get a chance_. He hadn't been able to find any words. _I'll chip in_, she'd rushed to say, misinterpreting his silence. _But I..._ _I can't... I don't make..._ She'd looked at the floor. Enough money, his addled brain had finished for her, catching on the molasses of surrounding lace and silk. I don't make enough money.

_Meredith,_ Izzie had said, bursting, _This is the part where you appreciate the prince charming aspects and let him pay. Right?_ Izzie had turned to him and glared, almost as if she'd feared she might find the creep who'd dumped Meredith for Addison staring back. Cristina had rolled her eyes, her own expression making it clear there was no might about what she expected to find. The creep.

He'd swallowed, leaning into Meredith as Izzie had dragged Cristina off to start looking around. To look at the choices. The choices. He'd dumbly not realized what had been going on, even as the four of them had entered the frilly dress shop, even as Izzie had squealed with delight, even as Cristina had moaned and grumbled but come along anyway.

_Hey,_ he'd said, trying to distract Meredith from what she'd always perceived to be their awkward financial situation. _I'm willing to splurge on anything that gets you into formal wear._ _You'll look hot with a garter belt. _All the while, his mind had been whirling. A dress. She was actually going to wear a wedding dress? A real one? A real--

She'd blinked, a snicker twitching across her face. _Well,_ she'd purred, her fingers clasping the lapels of his coat. _I get you in a tux. I suppose it's only fair._

A tall, thin, brunette man had smiled and spirited Derek's credit card from his lax grip. Meredith had kissed Derek deeply, without abandon, and the chime of the register as a very large chunk of his salary joined Alice in Wonderland hadn't bothered him one bit.

The man had returned quietly with Derek's credit card. The grin on the man's face had been infectious as he'd clapped excitedly. _Oh, your fiancé is lovely, _the man had said, his voice dripping with sincerity._ Just lovely. Delicious eyes. We'll find something perfect to bring them out for your big day. _Derek hadn't been able to tell if the assurances were meant for Meredith or for him. The man had stood there smiling cheerfully until one of his assistants had called him away.

_Mr. Eliot, Mr. Eliot, you have a phone call from Janine about your flowers. _

_Don't tell me she ruined my order again,_ Mr. Eliot had moaned with a disgruntled, horrified gasp. _I stated very specifically I wanted crushed red rose petals for the front display in time for Valentine's Day. _

Mr. Eliot had left them standing there in silence, surrounded by racks and racks of dresses, breathing softly against each other.

_Oh, this is simply a disaster!_ Mr. Eliot had cried from somewhere far away, but it hadn't mattered. Not when Meredith had been standing there, staring at him in the quiet, the smell of fabric and the spill of lace and frilly things all around.

Derek had inhaled her along the line of her collarbone. _A dress, Meredith_, he'd mumbled. _You're really going to get... A dress? A real dress? A... With lace?_

_Well, maybe not lace, but..._ she'd whispered. _You want the dress._

_Meredith..._

_I got two proposals, an expensive freaking ring, a wonderful family, and you. I think I can deal with a dress for a few hours, Der. We do the compromising thing. Remember? _

He remembered.

It was rude to put his hands against the glass, yes, but he did it anyway, leaning against the gold lettering as he stared. Meredith had a fitting today, and Sarah and Kathy had flown in for their fittings as well. Cristina and Izzie would be there also, but his mind stopped analyzing things the second he found her profile. The chill of the glass sank into his fingertips, but he didn't notice, didn't care as his gaze found its target. A small blond head bobbed in the air just above the sea of dress racks. Meredith.

Meredith.

For the longest time, he could only stare, captivated, enthralled, mesmerized. Pick a fucking word, he was stuck that way. But as quickly as he'd sighted her, her profile retreated behind an illuminated wall of mirrors, back to the dressing room. A cadre of his sisters and their children, Cristina, and Izzie followed Meredith, all chatter and shifting fabric.

He swallowed. Meredith pulled him after her like a siren tormenting Odysseus. Derek barely noticed the cold chill of the glass as he pushed the door open, barely noticed the quiet ding announcing his presence to the register, or the happy greetings of Mr. Eliot. Meredith was already gone, and he had to follow her.

"Just going to see Mere," he mumbled to Mr. Eliot, who smiled, waved him on, and returned to a heated conversation with his receptionist. Something about the newest offerings by Versace. Their voices fell behind Derek's shoulders and waned into a faint buzz as he plowed onward, caught by the magnetic pull of her.

Meredith, Meredith, Meredith, he needed.

The dressing room was more of a dressing warehouse than an ordinary room. Each stall was a huge box meant to accommodate a huge claw-foot mirror and several women in flaring dresses. Heavy, plush burgundy curtains hung down from the ceilings, creating the sensation that he was walking through the chambers of a heart, the pulse of life around him urging him forward, forward, forward into the depths.

Voices cloyed around him, though none of the words formed the female-shopping-pitfalls he had often encountered when Addison had dragged him out. Does this make my hips too wide? Is this color flattering? Do you like this? Which do you prefer? Trap questions that he'd learned to skate around. No, he didn't hear anything like that. Everyone seemed happy with Meredith's choices.

_I don't want to force anyone to look like a freaking candy factory explosion. Or gaudy drapery. Or Little Bo Peep or whatever, _Meredith had said, first looking to him for guidance.

Still stunned that she had even been considering a wedding dress at all, he'd given her a rather Gallic I'm-a-man-don't-make-me-pick shrug. She'd then turned to Cristina, who'd stood beside Izzie, a scowling, mirthless happiness vacuum. Cristina had attended more in a you're-my-person-and-this-is-the-corpse-I-have-to-lug sense than anything remotely involved in the selection of a dress. Meredith's stare had lingered on Cristina perhaps a half a moment before skipping to Izzie, who had been bouncing on her feet as if the soles of her shoes had been spring-loaded.

Pick me. Pick me. Pick me.

Izzie had swooped in on Meredith as soon as she'd been given the opening, all nuclear-watt smiles and high-pitched gaggle talk, the kind that tended to happen whenever women congregated, and he'd sat back in silence to watch the parade of _This? How about this? Is this any good?_ Cristina had sat next to Derek on the ornate, velvet bench as the parade of shifting fabric went by, her eyes unblinking, lips slightly parted, the reactive tremble of her loose hair the only indication that Mr. Eliot's staccato, excited clapping was hitting her eardrums.

_Do we really have to_... Cristina had begun to say, her voice wispy and barely audible over the trading laughter and suggestions. Her shoulders had slumped, and she'd let the sentence die when she'd watched Meredith looking at herself in the mirror. _This is your fault_, she'd grumbled as she'd leaned back on the bench and crossed her arms with a subtle growl.

_You already hate me,_he'd said, unwilling to stop the smug grin as he spread his legs and slouched, and unable to tear his gaze from Meredith. _What's for me to lose?_

_Good point_, Cristina had replied, and then she'd gone silent for the rest of the torture.

He'd settled in. Hours must have passed as dress after dress after dress passed by him for inspection. He knew he should have remembered her in every elegant iteration. Strapless, sleeveless, puffy-shouldered, long-sleeved, form-fitting, slim, loose, flaring, white, cream, lace, satin. But he hadn't been able to stop watching Meredith's face, and the rest of the experience had faded into the blurry fringes of his senses.

She'd said her decision to wear a wedding dress was a compromise for him, but the way her lips had twitched upward as she'd pondered her many choices, the way she'd posed and preened before the mirror as if imaginary weddings were happening behind her eyes... _I could be a princess for a day,_ her expression had said, and everything in his body had loosened when he'd read the words off her face as though she were his novel. He'd been tired, a little achy, but in the moment when he'd gleaned the meaning of her twitchy, hesitant smile and the dreamy sparkle of gray in her eyes, his discomfort had bled away, and he'd found he loved her more.

Derek blinked, pushing the memory away with a grin as the surrounding voices pulled him back into the present. He felt a little voyeuristic, slipping into the dressing room unannounced, but his need for her thrummed inside his body like the bass beat in a noisy club, and it wasn't like he was looking for... Well, the only person he would be wantonly staring at was someone who usually rather enjoyed the attention from him. His heart joined in the excitement with a gasping flutter before it kicked into higher gear. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump, thump, thud, thud. Slam. Slam. Slam.

He breathed softly as he searched. Quiet, quiet, he thought frantically at his rampaging heart. Not yet. You can't have her yet, and being caught is bad. Bad, bad, bad. He forced himself to take a long, even inhalation, to calm the slow-burn of excitement, only to bring a hint of lavender wafting against him. The heady scent of it welled in every crevice of his lungs, and his only hope for rational thought ceased. Right that moment, somewhere in that dressing room, she was in a dress. Her wedding dress. And she was taking it off.

He wanted her, he wanted, he want-- Stop. Stop it.

He moved past his sisters. Cristina's deep, growling expressions of discontent jarred him to a halt. Not the last dressing room, then. Which left...

Meredith's mumbling brought him to her like the North Star in a midnight sky.

"Stupid... This... Crap. Stupid, stupid..." she muttered behind the curtain to his right. He pushed the drape serving as her dressing room door several inches to the side, only to find her twisted around like a pretzel, caught in the middle of a flowing, white dress. She'd picked a simple white strapless dress that flared a bit at the feet, no overly embellished lace, no train that would require a forklift to move. The fabric had a subtle sheen to it, like snow resting under the last hint of moonlight in the morning. The dress was elegant, understated, and perfectly... Meredith. And Meredith? Meredith was very, very flexible. Very--

"Cristina!" Meredith belted as she twisted around, oblivious to his presence. The dress flared as she spun and hopped. "There's buttons on this thing!"

"I know," Cristina replied from somewhere to the left. "One-hundred and twenty-two. I remember every single one of them, by the way."

"I thought you said all these buttons were good for surgical dexterity!" Meredith called back as she tried to reach behind herself only to fail and growl in frustration.

"That was before my obligatory five minutes of person-ly tolerance went poof."

For a moment, Derek couldn't breathe as he watched her. Meredith. His. His wife. Soon.

_Derek Shepherd… Will you marry me? _

Two months.

Even shuffling and off balance, Meredith looked beautiful, breathtaking... Garter. You'll have to take the garter out from underneath-- He swallowed as he stared at her. The dress hugged her curves and coaxed her hips into a gorgeous, smooth hourglass. Her pale, sloping shoulders dragged his attention away from the luxurious fabric. He blinked as he filled in every naked line of her smooth skin from the shoulders down, and the dress seemed to fade away as desperate memories took control.

_I love you, I love you, I love you..._

His throat. Couldn't... He swallowed and couldn't find anything else to do but step forward. The drape rustled as he pushed past it.

His hands found the silk that hugged her waistline, and he pulled her up against him. "Need help?" he murmured into her neckline as he breathed her in. "I'm extremely good with buttons." The scent of lavender stroked the back of his throat, and in a flash, breathing wasn't enough. His lips parted, and he tasted the soft knot of skin over her clavicle. He could help. He could.

"Crap!" Meredith screeched, but he covered her lips with his palm to silence her. Her body tightened in his arms, as if she were about to bolt, but as she seemed to realize who her dressing room intruder was, and what he was doing, and that she rather liked it, her muscles loosened, and she sighed.

"I'll help you in a minute," Cristina growled. "I have my own buttons to deal with at the moment. Seventy-two, I might add."

"Seventy-six," Izzie corrected, giggling lightly as an exclamation. "I love weddings. I feel like I'm in a Disney movie!"

"Only you would think that's a good thing," Cristina snarled. "Now, shut up and get me out of this thing."

"Then stop squirming!" Izzie replied.

For several seconds in the following silence, Meredith remained pliant, sighing with enjoyment as he nipped and licked and teased. He found the first pair of buttons between her shoulder blades and slipped the tiny loops of fabric free. Surgical dexterity, he pondered. Definitely required. The thread was minuscule and delicate, and the buttons were smaller than peas. He wondered if he would have been lying about the buttons if he were a construction worker, or a sedentary insurance salesman, or... His thoughts trailed away as he tasted her and tasted her again, clean, the slightest hint of salt and cinnamon. Mmm. But instead of relaxing further, Meredith stiffened.

"You're not supposed to be here," she hissed as she found her words again. "It's bad luck! You can't see--"

"I saw it already, remember?" he said, his voice a hoarse growl. "You dragged me shopping!"

"I didn't drag you. You were happy to--" Her voice jarred to a halt, and what little progress he'd been making on relaxing her into a pile of moaning regressed to nothing. "Right? You were happy, right?"

"Thrilled," he assured her. "It was just an expression, Mere. But I saw the dress. It's been seen."

"It's been..." She sighed. "You did, but..."

"But?" he whispered against her ear. The fabric of the dress slipped against his fingertips as he found her hips and rubbed her.

"But it wasn't mine then!" she protested. "It was baggy, and--" Her voice fell into a deep, withered, staccato moan as he ground into her. The dress rustled and shifted, mingling with the sounds of his breathing as he pried four more pairs of buttons loose. Get it off. Get it off. Get it off, his mind screamed as the need to reassure her drifted away, replaced by desire. A thrill of heat galloped down his spine. She was perfect. "And stiff," Meredith commented.

"Oh, yes," he whispered, a delighted chuckle escaping with his surprised exhale. He roamed up her neck and nuzzled against her hair. "You can feel it through all that silk?"

"No, I meant," she panted. "Dress. Starchy. Not mine... Bad. Bad luck! No..."

His excitement plummeted.

He paused, trying to collect his thoughts and his breath long enough to get her off the ramble train. This wasn't going quite how he'd planned it. He'd only wanted to say hello, to see her. But seeing her had torn all that to shreds, and he'd found himself stuck with the now plan. The plan that replaced propriety with the desire to sweep her off her feet as only words of oh, yes, Derek, please, please, more, fell from her lips. She hadn't yet said oh, yes, Derek, please, or more, let alone any of it in multiples. Oh for five after that much saliva spent was rather discouraging.

"Meredith, please," he murmured.

"But--"

"I can..." he whispered, grasping for words and failing as the fire drove his body into her, grinding. Down-shift, he thought. You can do slow. You can-- Incredibly slow, damn it. Can... He popped the next pair of buttons, revealing a sliver of creamy skin that he hadn't had access to before. He rubbed his thumb between a set of pale freckles on her back that looked like a miniature version of the Orion constellation. Her skin followed the pressure of his fingertip like smooth molasses. "Please," he managed.

"But everyone is here--"

"I just finished twelve hours of surgery at the end of a thirty-six hour shift," he snapped. "I haven't seen you naked in more than two days, and I need you. I don't care if the Pope himself is watching." His frustration melted into desperation as she shifted, trying to look at him. He caught the dim reflection of the overhead lights glittering in her right pupil, which dilated with lust as he watched. She wanted this. Her expression was what he'd been waiting for. An indication. A sign. Something... She wanted... God, damn it. He couldn't do slow today. He renewed his efforts, rhythm broken to shreds by desire, and he suddenly didn't care where they were, who was nearby, or what sort of art he applied to the experience. "I need you, now, Meredith. Right now."

For a moment, he thought he would lose her, that her interest would dissipate when it crashed into the murmur of his family and her friends all around them like waves breaking on rocks. It would be the smart thing. It would be the appropriate thing. God, was he really acting like this while his sisters and their kids were in talking distance, separated from them by nothing more than drapes?

Yes, he really was. He was--

"Meredith," Izzie called, her voice fluttering down over the curtains. "How do you think you're going to do your hair for the wedding?"

Too many people, too close, but if they could do it fast, if they could... He inhaled sharply, annoyed at how desperate it sounded, just a slip of vocalized air, quivering, pained. He'd come here to... Just to see her. And he'd devolved into a pile of lechery with one whiff of her hair, one focused moment on her curves, the dress, the... Jesus.

_Hard. Fucking hard._

"A French..." Meredith said, but her voice came out growly and hoarse and barely there as he shakily freed her of button after button. Get it off. Get it off. Get it off... Stop. Stop it. You'll get caught. You'll rip the buttons. You'll... Had to get... Inside. Had to-- His chest heaved with pain at the prospect of such a long unwrapping process. Go slow. He had to-- She blinked, cleared her throat. "Something French. Twisty. Or... Something," she managed, but he barely noticed in the fray of wanting.

_You like my twisty. _

_Are we talking literal twisty? _

Her body stiffened in his arms as he arrived at the very last stretch of buttons, and she turned. She stared at him, eyes hazy with the same desire he felt burning through him. Her shallow breathing would have calmed him if her dress weren't unfurling from her body like a banana peel. The curve of her hips lay just below the flowing white, a present waiting for him.

"I guess if we can do planes," she whispered, "We can do a dressing room quickie."

He shuddered with relief as he curled his arms around her. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I just wanted--" You. Naked. Now.

Her lips twitched and parted, revealing the pearly shine of her teeth. "Nothing's wrong," she said. "Nothing at all." Her voice dropped into a low and throaty pitch, like a cat, purring. "Surgery is such a high..."

_I don't know why anybody does drugs..._

He dipped into her cleavage with his tongue and wandered up the line of her throat, breathing, sighing, sucking. "I love you," he said.

She gasped a breathless set of syllables that could have been, "Me, too." His fingertips brushed her shoulder blades, stroked the curve of her spine into the valley at the small of her back. He thrust against her, jamming his hands between her and the wall.

She gasped. "More, there," she moaned, and through the shifting, flowing dress, he felt her grinding against his erection. Her hands wormed at the buttons of his jeans, and with a vicious string of pop, pop, pops, he was free, free and wanting, only his boxers between his skin and her dress.

Fire.

Her body thumped as he rammed against the wall with her. Gentle, be... Slow. What? His teeth skimmed the line of her jugular, under her jawline, everywhere, tasting. Tasting heaven. He imagined he could feel her pulse, alive underneath her skin, thudding, hot. And then his fingers found their prize. The last set of buttons between him and her.

"This sort of breaks the whole virginal dress thing," she murmured, hiccuping on each sigh as he pressed into her and they shuffled toward the wall. He popped the last six buttons, giddy as the white dress crumpled to the floor. He found a black lace thong waiting for him south of her navel. No garter or stockings or... His breath stopped. She was wearing a black lace thong with the surface area of a small post-it note, and she thought that the quickie sex was what was ruining the virginal dress aspect? Don't say that. Don't say-- Stop. Stopstopstop.

"Hmm," he purred, almost dizzy, as she thumped against the wall and stretched against him, making him feel a little like a lion taking a gazelle down for the kill. Take her. Take her. Take her. "That's a misconception, you know."

"Well," she replied, breathless. "What's it mean then?"

He sighed, nuzzling against her. "Purity of heart."

"I guess I screwed that up when I met Jose."

"You didn't screw anything up," he said. Her hands slipped underneath his boxers and stroked him. "Fuck."

He growled at her, leaning against her shoulder as she shimmied his boxers down, down, down, silk sliding against his burning quads, until they pooled at his thighs on top of his jeans. She felt good. She felt... God. He shoved into her, sliding his length between her legs. Wet, warm heat enveloped him, and all he could do was focus his blurry vision on the tiled ceiling and moan. Sin. Sin. Sin. You'll get caught. You'll get-- Heaven. His moan lengthened. He nipped at her fingers when she brushed against his lips to silence him. Her hands roamed up, and needle points of pain brought his gaze back down as she wound her fingertips through his hair and yanked. A curdled groan broke apart over her lips.

His gaze met hers. Her eyes shone bright with his reflection. He saw himself in the black pools of her pupils, panting, dazed. Aroused. Her lips had parted, and she stared dully at him, removed from sentience by lust. The twist and wind of her stray curls, the way she breathed, short and stilted, the way her stare lingered on him as though she were high, drugged on him, just as bad as he was on her... Heaven. His.

_I have what I want._

"All right, Meredith," said Cristina, impatience biting at her tone. "Which of these ridiculous fluff pits did you disappear into?"

_At least you're not the ones she heard. _

With a startled blink, Meredith returned. "Nowhere!" she croaked as her cheeks reddened, and heated blush that had nothing to do with sex snaked down her neck, her breasts... Everywhere. "I mean..." She sucked in a breath, and he felt snarls of pain at his scalp again.

_At least you're not the ones she saw._

He leaned into her neck, letting his teeth brush her skin. Part of him, a dark part that he hated, wanted Cristina to find them. Find them so she would know. Meredith. His. His, his, his. His wife. Derek sniggered against Meredith's ear. "You're playing with fire, you know, naughty girl."

_Okay, shutting up now._

Meredith stiffened, which only made him moan as her inner quads clenched, enveloping him, stroking him. He pushed against her, barely noticing as the breath leaked out of her. Silk rubbed over him. Silk that wasn't supposed to be there. His fingers slipped down her skin, following the swell of her breast, the bumps of her ribs, the dip at her waist... He found the lace straddling her hips in a scalpel-thin line and clawed at it. It shouldn't. Be there. It shouldn't... God. What was he doing? He was... Acting like... Acting...

_I love you the most. I really can't imagine wanting to die in light of that. _

"I'm fine," Meredith snapped. "Buttons are... I can do the buttons thing."

"No, you can't," Derek growled playfully. "But I can."

"Whatever, Meredith," Cristina replied. "I'll be outside sucking down Guinness."

"Really?" Izzie asked. "Where?"

"The bar across the street," Cristina said.

Meredith's thong slipped down to the floor in a pile with her dress, and her left knee slammed up against his hip to grip him. His body wavered like a tree prostrating for the wind. What would have been more words punched out of him, a staccato march of nonsensical sounds. I want you. I need you. Woman, you're killing me, and I don't care, because this is like fucking nirvana. Except it sounded more like unghhh when his vocal cords were through mangling the thoughts and turning them into syllables. Wrong. This was all wrong. They would get caught, but he couldn't care, he couldn't--

Footsteps. Coming toward them like hammers of judgment.

"Mere, honey," Sarah's rich voice said just behind the curtain. Just behind... So close. Dangerous, and suddenly, he cared. Cristina was one thing. Sarah was another. And Sarah... "Let me come help you," she said.

"No, really..." Meredith blurted as she leaned her forehead against his chest and squeezed her eyes shut. Her nails dug into the bunched muscles of his back, stabbed him through his cotton shirt with pain he was sure served as a harbinger for runnels of blood. But he didn't care about the pain, he didn't-- "I'm fine..." Meredith said, shifting against him in a way that made his knees quiver and threaten to give out. God, she was... Sin. "I'm totally fine."

Sarah chuckled. "Don't be shy. It's impossible to get these things off..." The curtain hissed as she pushed the fabric back. All Derek could do was shimmy in front of Meredith and fight to keep his balance while he protected her modesty, while he... Did... something. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. "Without..." Silence. A gasp. "Help," Sarah finished weakly. "Der... Um. Hello."

"Crap," Meredith hissed against his chest. He heaved a breath as her nails dug into his skin.

A set of little footsteps approached while he tried to collect his thoughts, but Meredith's skin touched him, he was so close, and he needed. Dizziness halted any capable response, and he couldn't... Jesus. Why did she have to keep squirming against his...

"Unca Derk, whatcha doin' to Aunt Merdith?"

He turned his head and watched as Sarah swooped down and plucked Elizabeth, one of Kathy's kids, up into her arms. "Okay, then," Sarah said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Uncle Derek's busy, sweetie. Let's go for ice cream. I saw a shop across the street."

A chorus of shrieks pierced the dressing room. "Ice cream!"

Sarah disappeared, and Derek watched Elizabeth's tiny, buckled shoes slide out of view. The curtain swooshed shut. Voices cracked down around them like anvils. What? Derek's here? When did that happen?

Meredith's fingers loosened, and the spikes of pain against his back relinquished their grip on him. Footsteps cluttered the air around them. Then the noises in the dressing room thinned, and a quality of aloneness hit his awareness. Everyone had left to give them privacy. Or... He glanced at Meredith. Or to give him time to apologize.

He groaned and stepped back to keep from squashing her against the wall. She slid into a sitting position, her creamy skin set ablaze by blush, her expression dazed, and her wedding dress spread around her like the petals of a blooming flower. For a moment, she sat there, stunned and silent. He blinked, watching her as the fire coursing through his veins became uncomfortable icy floes.

"Crap," Meredith repeated softly, and he couldn't help but grimace in agreement. Her fingers shook and, suddenly, she was on her feet again, pulling up the microscopic thong he'd rid her of not minutes before. She stepped out of the dress, leaving it crumpled in the corner, and rushed to her street clothes, which were folded on the seat by the mirror.

"Mere," he tried, his voice cracking with remnants of his halted frenzy. He coughed, trying to clear his throat, trying not to focus on how disappointed he was that she was covering up, that she was hiding all her precious, beautiful skin.

"Well," she said flatly as she yanked her shirt over her head. "I'm sort of on the mortified train. Are you?"

Not really. Just... He bit his lip and forced himself to reassemble his brain. All the desire he'd pent up leaked out of him like air from a days-old balloon. Replaced by... What exactly? Not shame at being caught. Just shame that he'd degenerated into... that. The thing that had lined them up to get caught in the first place.

"It's okay, Mere," he said as he buttoned up his jeans. He felt raw and uncompleted, vastly uncomfortable in the space provided to him. The denim rubbed through the silk of his boxers, abraded him like sandpaper, and he longed for the slick feel of her thighs against him. But he forced himself to ignore it. "It happens."

She stopped and glared. "It happens," she said. Her eyebrows rose into a sharp arches. "It happens?"

Derek shrugged. "With my family? It totally happens, Mere. Have you listened to Sarah and Stewart at all when they talk? Or Mark? Or--"

Meredith sighed. "At least your mother wasn't here..."

"Mere, it's really okay," he assured her. "This is all--"

Meredith's lips formed a flat line. She zipped up her jeans and paced, and he got the distinct impression he was watching a lioness as she moved back and forth, back and forth, as if she were debating how to-- She wheeled to an abrupt halt in front of him. The heat of her skin throbbed against him, and her breathing filled the silence. The air seemed to crackle. Her eyes glittered and narrowed, and her arms crossed over her chest.

"I think we should stop having sex," she said. "Until the wedding night."

His mouth fell open. "Don't you think that's a little... drastic?"

The skin around her gray eyes twitched, and a heated blush spread across her cheeks. "Derek, we were just caught having dirty sex in a bridal shop by your five-year-old niece. Nothing is too drastic. She's probably scarred for life."

Derek snorted. "She's not scarred for life, Meredith," he said. "This is--"

"Damn it, Derek," Meredith snapped. "Can you please care for a second that you made me look like a whore in front of your family?"

_You don't get to call me a whore._

His muscles clenched, and an agonizing chill slipped down his throat, as though he'd swallowed an ice cube, and it'd gotten stuck somewhere between his mouth and his stomach. It ached. His eyes watered, and he swallowed. "A who-- Whoa," he said, his voice hoarse. He reached out and clutched at her shoulders, suddenly desperate to bring her close. His arms folded around her. Her muscles loosened, and she leaned into him.

The relief he felt at just that small concession fired in all his joints at once. He started to shake, not quite sure what to do with the sudden swell of everything. The exhaustion from before. Shame.

"Meredith..." he said. Her shoulder blades cut into his forearms he squeezed her so hard, but he didn't care. "Mere, I didn't mean... I never meant..." None of the words were coming out. They kept knocking against his teeth and falling flat on his tongue. "You're not... I just wanted--" To bask. To love.

She sighed. Warmth spread across his chest, and she snuggled closer. He felt her fingers at the small of his back, clutching his shirt. "Forget it," she said. "I'm being stupid. You're right. Your family is... Different. Different than mine was."

"It's not stupid," he said, teeth gritted. Hate sluiced down over all the other ugly things constricting around his heart. Damn her fucking family. Damn them all to-- "No. There was something there, Meredith. There was... And I am so sorry. I just wanted-- You're not a whore, Meredith. Never."

"I know, I..."

"No, Meredith," he growled. He leaned back and touched her chin with his fingers, tilted her head up. The fine hairs dotting her skin felt like silk underneath his finger pads, and he longed to run his splayed hand down her throat. To explore. Lower, and lower, and lower still. But the feeling was pale in comparison to the sudden certainty that there was something he needed to pry from her. Like a splinter, or a... "Look at me. Where on Earth did this come from? I thought we were okay."

She blinked, eyes shining. "We are okay, Derek," she said. She reached up and wiped her face with her palms, sniffling. "We are... I love you. It's perfect." Her lips twitched, pulling her expression into a deep, warm smile. "I feel... perfect. Like I'm in a fairytale or something. It's just..."

"Just?" he prodded.

"Our wedding night should be special," she said. "It should be... It shouldn't be just another night."

"It won't be, Mere," he assured her. "It will be our wedding night.

Anger flashed again. "It won't be special if we're having sex in dressing room closets in my freaking wedding dress right up until the day before."

"Meredith," he murmured, leaning against her. Her arms wrapped around his waist, and he sighed. "Any sex with you is special. You're always special to me."

"Exciting doesn't necessarily mean special," she replied. "I want..."

When her voice trailed away, he kissed the top of her head and rested against her, breathing. "What, Mere?" he prodded. "What do you want?"

Her fingers clenched. "Everyone always thinks I'm the dark and twisty freak," she said. "I get it. I do. I still think that, too. Sometimes..."

"Mere, you're not--"

"I want to be fresh and..." Her voice halted. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of her. Breathing. Blood rushing. "I want it to be..."

"Magic?" he whispered.

Her entire body loosened in his arms, and she hiccuped, or sobbed, or something that he couldn't identify. She sniffed and met his eyes. Smiled, brilliant, glowing. "Yeah," she said, though her expression said so much more, so much that made his heart thud and his breath stop. You get me. You always get me.

_Just for the record... I am your knight in shining whatever..._

He grinned. "Okay."

"Really?" she replied, eyebrows raised. "You're okay with this?"

"I like sex, Mere, with you."

"Derek..."

"But I can definitely understand wanting the magic, Mere," he assured her. "You give that to me every day..."

_I don't think a science book will ever figure that one out. I imagine it's a bit like getting struck by lightning._

His words didn't have the desired effect. Her bright face crumpled into a frown. "Oh," she said. "Crap."

"I didn't say that to make you feel guilty..." he said.

"I'm..." she stammered and looked down. "Maybe it was a dumb idea. The no sex thing."

He watched her gray eyes as she studied him. There it was again. The niggling realization that she wanted or needed... Him. To do something. For her. She knew what she wanted, except, she didn't **know**. She needed that push. She needed...

"My family will be around more and more as we get closer to the wedding..." Two months. Two months. Two months.

She nodded. "They will be. They're already here all the time, and the wedding isn't even in Seattle."

"And Mark sucks at knocking," he added.

"He does," Meredith replied, wincing. From the look on her face, she definitely remembered that.

When they'd christened his desk for the hell of it. A sort of welcome back to the operating table extravaganza after Mike had cleared him for surgeries. Mark had decided to offer his own congratulations. Meredith had had on her lab coat. Mark hadn't seen anything at all except her pristinely ironed coat, the disarrayed trail of her loose hair, Derek's knees, and the scattered torrent of papers that had been in Derek's inbox until Derek's back had slammed on top of the tray and sent the whole thing tumbling to the floor.

_Fuck, man,_ Mark had snapped. _Lock your door, for Christ's sake. Or tie your stethoscope on the knob like we did in med school. _The door had slammed shut behind him as he'd muttered curses to himself. _Fucking congratulations._

Derek grinned. "So, it's settled then."

Meredith frowned. "Derek..."

"Don't tell me you're backing out now."

"What?"

He kissed her. "Can't make it two months without me?"

"I--"

"I know," he replied. He leaned into her and brushed his lips against her. Soft. Soft. Heaven. He groaned, inhaling the scent of lavender as he nuzzled against her ear. His tongue skimmed her earlobe, tasting her. "I'm irresistible," he murmured against her skin.

Wet, soft skin closed around his Adam's apple. The tip of her nose ran up against his jaw line. She wandered over his chin and found his lips. "You are," she said. "Usually."

"I love you," he replied. "Always."

She leaned against him and sighed. "Yeah."


	58. Chapter 56 FINAL CHAPTER

**Author's Notes: Well, here we are. At the end. It's been a long, long journey. I want to thank everyone who's stayed with me despite the hiccups. I hope you got as much enjoyment out of reading this story as I did writing it. I want to extend a huge thank you to my beta readers. SSBR, who's been there from the beginning. SSSB, who joined late, but has been no less valuable. Finally, Super Special Last Minute Beta SSLMB. Without all your help and encouragement, this story never would have been completed.**

* * *

_Meredith stared through the latticework of the gazebo where she and Derek had gotten married, but no one in the moving sea of reception-goers stared back. The gazebo had been buried in ivy and floral arrangements, making its thick, foot-wide latticework slats into the walls of a lavender-scented fortress. She found the obscurement a comfort, because she could watch and listen and be while she tried to let her racing mind slow down a little. _

_Ellen's backyard was... Something. Sarah and Kathy had done a beautiful job with it._

_Floating, twinkling lights dangled from invisible wires over the dance floor, and the four corner pillars holding up the tent stood up against the pinkish, purpling twilight sky, just like the tree trunks by the-- She saw a light wink on and off over the grass to her right. Another answered it. To the left. And another, and another, and another.__ Fireflies. __She found the resemblance to that night on Derek's land uncanny, and Meredith wondered if Derek had confessed to his sisters about it. _

_Sarah and Kathy seemed to have a serious toehold into his psyche at times. And they were excellent interrogators. What would be the perfect way to set up the back yard for the wedding? He probably would have gushed about that night if they had tortured him with just the right sort of leverage. What would Meredith like? It has to be perfect for Meredith, you know._

_Fireflies in the dark were perfect._

_She closed her eyes and found the memory behind her eyelids, lambent, everlasting. Fireflies, a water-colored sunset, and a glittering, gurgling pond. She and Derek had made love for an hour under a canopy of stars and a pocked, pie-plate moon. _

_Her breath stopped as a familiar tightness rippled in her groin, deep within.__ Only a rush of laughter from the crowd compelled her back into the present, compelled her to remember that there were people. Stewart making jokes. Cristina drinking booze. People. All around. __People who had watched her get married. Married! She scrunched her fingers tightly against the white latticework, forcing the ghost of Derek's palms running up her thighs to cease, beating down the whorl of sighs and touch and taste. People. All around. Ivy and lavender crinkled under her fingertips as she listened to the breeze and the movement of bodies. _

_People watching. It seemed like a weird thing to do when, theoretically, this was supposed to be her event. She was the people that people were supposed to be watching. Right? Except she felt ready to burst with the pent up sex and the I-really-did-it of it all, and if she watched, she felt less crazy, less like she'd hooked herself up to an intravenous line of espresso and overdosed. Less caffeinated was good. Less crazy was even better. So, she watched._

_Izzie had dragged Alex onto the floor with her, but she stared mostly at George, who had paired off with Callie. Weird. Cristina and Burke and John and Kathy intermingled in Meredith's line of sight as they crossed paths. Meredith resisted a giggle at Cristina's bored expression. Cristina. Slow-dancing. It seemed wrong. She was more of a punk bouncer than anything else. Mike and Melinda Weller seemed to be cut off from their surroundings, staring into each other's eyes, as though they were buried in memories of their own wedding. Susan and Thatcher. Mark and Ellen. Sarah and... Wait._

_It wasn't until Meredith's gaze drifted to Stewart that she frowned. He hopped up onto the platform on the deck where the disc jockey, who looked affronted to be sharing his space, sat behind a wall of speakers and electronics. Stewart grabbed the microphone in a brash act of thievery that left the disc jockey flailing, tapped it once, twice, three times, and cleared his throat. The people on the dance floor stuttered to slow halts and turned to look at him after the current tune screeched into silence, leaving only the whine of interference leaking from the speakers. _

"_Hello there, tonight," Stewart said in a low radio-announcer voice that just made it seem comical. Several people chuckled._

_He paused to tip the lip of a beer can back to his lips. Beer. From a can. When they'd spent a ton of money on really good champagne. And crystal champagne flutes. Where had he gotten that? _

"_It seems we have a problem," he continued. "We're missing two very important people at this wedding."_

_Meredith bit her lip. Which two people were missing? She couldn't think of anyone not already on the dance floor except... Her fingers tightened. She'd lost sight of Derek. Where was--_

_Two arms slipped around her waist. Her heart jackhammered and she resisted the urge to shriek as a low, breathy voice whispered next to her ear, "I get it. This is payback."_

_"Payback?" she managed. She turned to find Derek smirking at her. How did you find me, wanted to tumble out of her mouth, but it halted with his look. _

_I know you, his sparkling eyes said. He winked. Winked! Which tossed her heart into overdrive. Hello, caffeine. Everything she'd worked to push down roared back, and she bit her lip. _

"_You want me to slave over the buttons tonight," he said, his voice a low growl. "Because of the garter toss." I know you. I know you. I know you. _

"_Derek and Meredith?" Stewart said across the crowd. "Anyone seen our two blissful trouble-makers anywhere?"_

_She quirked an eyebrow, settling into Derek's embrace. "The garter toss?"_

_His gaze wandered down. "You almost kicked me when I slipped my finger past--"_

"_Yeah," she said. "I mean no, it's just…"_

_She'd disappeared. She'd disappeared after their first dance together, after watching him with his mother, after all the special spotlight dances, barely breathing, relaxed, quiet, ready. She'd disappeared to change into the white sun dress she'd bought. The one she had intended to wear after the wedding while they were on the way to the hotel, because it was a bit more comfortable. Easy to get into and out of. Easier to freaking pee in. But she'd gotten into the bedroom to change, crazy caffeine had hit, and she hadn't been able to do it. Hadn't been able to hold still so Izzie could start picking her way through the buttons. _

_Meredith had stared in the mirror, at the gown she was only going to wear once in her life, on the day that would only happen once in her life, and she hadn't been able to bring herself to take it off. Not then. The sun dress lay unused on the guest room bed, and she still wore her wedding dress, but it certainly hadn't been to torment him._

_Derek crushed her up against him, breathing softly into her hair near her ear. "It's okay, Mere. I know. We made it. And I get that you want to keep your princess feeling." I know you. I know you. "I get… Just…" _

_She petted the lapel of his tuxedo. He smelled so nice. She wanted to stand there forever. "What, Derek?"_

"_I don't think you'll ever lose it, to me."_

_Her breath halted, and she stepped back to peer at him. He had a quirky grin on his face, though his stare pierced her more sharply than a scalpel. Like he knew he'd said something incredibly corny but he also knew he meant it from the beginnings of each syllable to the wispy ends of them, and so he'd leave it there, hanging in the air. Joke fodder for anyone who happened across it. Because he didn't care if it was corny as long as he said it, and she heard it. _

"_I love you," she said. "I really, really do."_

"_All right," Stewart said. "I see drastic measures will be necessary. Behind the bench Knicks tickets to whoever can locate our perfect pair. It'll be very hard for them to drive off into the sunset for their honeymoon if they can't be located."_

"_I love you, too," Derek said as he pulled her with him into the shadow of one of the gazebo pillars. Flowers and latticework and frilly curtain things blocked them from the view of distant onlookers._

"_Stewart's looking for us," she murmured. "He probably did something horrible and cute to our car, and he wants to see me cringe."_

"_Let them look," Derek replied, and she relaxed. Relaxed like a wave settling on the beach in his arms. Because she wanted to stay there for a moment. Stay there in this place where they'd gotten married. Stewart was the tide that would pull them back out into the crowd, but he hadn't found them yet, and they were safe. Safe to stop and breathe and... Just be._

_Derek started to sway with her, and she laughed. "We already did the bride groom dance thing," she said._

_He shrugged. "So what?" _

_She caught the mischievous look in his eyes only seconds before he dipped her backward._

* * *

_When he'd found her standing alone in the gazebo still in her wedding dress, his heart had pinched with worry. Her soft fingers had been rubbing the wood of the gazebo almost... forlornly. What was wrong? What was-- But then she'd turned to face him, the worry had slipped away, and his heart had squeezed for an entirely different reason. Hopeful brightness had clouded her gaze. Not forlornness. _

_The moment. She'd been relishing the moment. A moment that involved him and only him, and she'd been relishing it. Something had closed his throat up, but he'd managed to punch his way through and form syllables. _

_Teasing. It seemed to be the only way he could communicate. Teasing. Because if he stopped finding humor in the situation, if he let himself pause, he'd think about that awe all centered on him from her, and thoughts wouldn't form coherently anymore._

_It's on you. It's you. You. You can't mess this up._

_You can't._

"_Can I convince you to lose the dress, now?" he murmured as he pulled her spindly body back to him. Her face flushed, and she breathed hard, just like she did after she finished, which brought him to a different kind of pause. Jesus. _

_He blinked as she laughed and swatted at his shoulder. "Derek…"_

"_Sorry, had to try," he said. His voice sounded rough and forced. Didn't it? "You're very lucky I'm a surgeon."_

"_And why is that?"_

_His palm wound its way up her spine, and he felt each little bump pass underneath his fingertips. Buttons. In his way. "If I wasn't, we'd never get to the sex tonight." Sex. Oh, god. How was he going to-- She wanted magic, and he could barely talk to her._

"_It does take dexterity," she replied, nodding. "Up to the task, Der?"_

_He coughed, trying to clear his throat as she stared at him, mischief wavering in her crystalline, gray gaze. His heartbeat slowed as he stared at her. Calm. You can be okay. "How did you turn this around on me?" he asked._

_The corner of her lip quirked. He wanted to kiss it, wanted to lick, wanted to do... things. Sex. Sex. Sex. Her fingers wound against his neck. He tried not to watch the world spinning around as they spun around because he knew it would make him dizzy. "Turn what around?" she said._

_"I was consoling you, and now you're teasing me."_

"_How is talking about getting rid of my dress consoling me?"_

_He paused, and their dance came to a jarring halt. They breathed. "I'll be able to ravish you quicker that way," he said._

"_You're a confident man," she replied. They started to spin again. "You sure you're not rusty?"_

"_Oh, I'm confident." Not. "I'm very confident." Not, not, not. "It's like riding a bike."_

"_A sexy bike."_

_He slid his hand down. Low, low, lower, past the buttons. Her muscles tightened, which only made him want to rut like a fool, right then. Except rutting? Not magic. Not hardly. He swallowed. "Bikes need not wear dresses with one-hundred twenty-two buttons, you know." He cleared his throat again._

_She frowned, concern finally interrupting her sparkling glow. Damn it. "Derek…"_

_He shuddered. "I'm sorry, Mere. I'm so sorry." He panted as he rested his forehead against hers, tried to breathe her in. It always used to calm him down before, and now he just felt more wired. More wired and ready for... Sex! Not. Not ready. He couldn't make it perfect for her if he couldn't even speak. "I don't think I'm making this very magical for you. I feel so—"_

_She kissed him, and the gazebo wall hit his back with a crunch as she rubbed up against him. She pulled away, his lower lip caught between her teeth. Release. He couldn't move. "Horny?" she whispered. Kiss. "Aroused?" Kiss. "Lusty?"_

_Kiss._

_He moaned. "You're not helping." This is what happened when he took two months off from sex. This. Oh, god. He couldn't make this perfect when he wanted to rip everything off right there and--_

_She sighed, pressing up against him. The gazebo latticework dug against his spine, but he didn't care. "It's… caffeine," she mumbled._

_The world spun. "What?"_

_She grunted. Her palm waved as she tried to find the words, and he couldn't help but grin, even in the whirlwind of him, feeling, lusting. "The magic thing," she decided on. "It's happening, Derek. Don't worry. It wouldn't be us without the innuendo stuff, would it?"_

_He snorted, leaning forward. Lavender. Sprigs of it. Hanging from the ceiling of the gazebo. Buried in the depths of her perfume. Everywhere. He breathed. "I guess not."_

"_And we've tortured each other for two months," she said. "Why stop at the finish line?"  
_

"_This isn't really a finish line, Mere. This is…"_

_His world came to a stuttering halt when he heard her sniffle. "We really did make it didn't we?" she said, pausing to look at him. The sick, twisting relief in her eyes, her quivering lower lip, and the salty tears plopping against the lapel of his tuxedo drove everything out of his head except her. He could deal with his nerves later. He could deal with... _

_He shifted, reaching for her chin with his palm. He tilted her face toward him and stared at her. She blinked. "We did," she moaned. "Oh, god, we did. And now we're…" Married. Finished. Just starting. New. "We're…"_

_He kissed her, nudged into her with his nose, and then he took her. Ravished her exactly like he said he would. Nerves gone. For a moment. She needed this. They spun around. Twigs snapped as he shoved her into the gazebo wall and tilted her head back for more. His fingers raked her neck, and he felt her. His belt loosened. "Mmm," he purred as he took a breath. "We are. We did."_

_She panted. A zipper screamed. "Karma can kiss my princess ass," she growled. _

"_Mmm," he agreed, and he found himself babbling like a thesaurus. "Karma. Fate. Destiny." He couldn't think of anything else. She tasted like wine. Her tongue rubbed against his. _

_And then it all stopped._

"_All right, you two, break it up," Stewart rumbled. "This is public indecency. And you're scheduled for your theatrical exit in five minutes. Exits don't involve coming. They involve going."_

_The world felt like it was falling out from under his feet. His head spun. He wanted her. Two hours, and they would be alone in a hotel room. Two hours. Nobody would interrupt them. And it would be all on him._

_His nerves came rushing back as Meredith put herself back together. Perfect, except one strand of hair that refused to be swept up. Only her flush remained. Somehow, he managed to tuck his shirt in. Somehow, he found his zipper. Even if none of it made sense. He fumbled with his belt. Somehow, somehow, somehow._

"_Excellent," Stewart said, his fingers forming a stiff, O.K. salute. "No one will know. Well... No one will know for sure."_

"_Oh, shut up," Meredith growled. "We were good for two freaking months."_

"_And I commend you," Stewart replied with a wink._

"_We were!" she insisted._

"_Yep," Stewart agreed as he clasped her shoulder with a big, splayed palm and directed her back toward the waiting crowd. He buckled slightly as Meredith shoved him with her hip, and then he cackled. "Okay, okay. But you'd think if you could make it two months, you could make it until you're in a hotel room, when bodice-ripping is an acceptable form of foreplay. I mean, really."_

"_We wanted magic, damn it," Meredith explained fruitlessly while Stewart laughed. "It's a thing."_

"_Magic," Derek muttered. "Right."_

"_A magic thing!" _

"_Uh huh," Stewart agreed. "You said it. Not me." The crowd converged around them in a riot of well-wishers and cheers as they returned to the tables and the dance floor and the music, and Derek could only blink at the sudden onslaught._

_Meredith slipped up beside him, wrapping her arm around his waist. "I think we'll manage," she told Derek with a wink. He swallowed as the pounding nerves threatened to bury him._

"_Definitely," he replied. Barely._

_Magic. All on you._

Despite the way her svelte frame reached over five-foot-six, Meredith Grey was a tiny person. He could easily encircle her wrist with just his thumb and pinky. He had long since mapped the paths he could meander up her slender neck with his mouth, though the choices always seemed infinite when in the process. His palm formed a vast expanse when he splayed it against the small of her back and followed the curve of her spine. When he spooned against her after sex, or just because he wanted her warmth, he felt massive. Strong. Virile. She had never felt heavy to him. Never, except in the days following his surgery when a bluster of wind or a light shove would have cowed him. And yet, as he shuffled down the hallway of the Algonquin, buried in the waterfalls of her body over his arms, feeling the light scrunch of her willowy fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, he felt like he held the world in his arms, and the weight stunned him.

"Are we there yet?" Meredith murmured into his neck. Her knee tightened over the crook of his elbow as she flexed her leg. Her syllables hit the spot where his chin connected to his neck like a wave, and he felt her nails dip underneath his shirt collar, sensual, ready, waiting, needing.

"We're there already," he said, locating his voice in the din. He felt hot and cold, still and moving.

A flash went off in his face. His fingers tightened, and the dim, narrow hallway seemed to darken further as the fuzzy blackness and sharp angry white smears faded. The camera whirred, and the concierge in front of them slowly rematerialized in the haze. Derek blinked, lips parted, feeling slightly slow, slightly high, slightly…

"Smile," said the concierge – a tall man dressed in a sharp uniform, smiling, endlessly smiling – and the flash went off again.

Squeaks. Behind him. Wheels. The leather of their suitcases moaned as the luggage dolly came to a stop. The door to their suite opened as if by magic. The bellhop that had barely been in Derek's peripheral awareness began unloading the luggage, but it was just that. Peripheral.

All Derek could think was that when he flexed his fingers, he felt it sitting there, wrapped around his left ring finger. It pressed against the bone whenever he squeezed her. It. The ring. Platinum. _Never to part._ Never to…

I mean it this time, he swore silently. And I'm not screwing it up. Not ever. He found himself seeking the soft silk of her hair against his cheek.

"You really don't have to carry me all the way," Meredith said. She looked up at him, eyes glittering. He caught the flicker of his face against her pupils. He looked shell-shocked, white, and shaky. Stunned. How did I manage to get here? But not in a bad way. Not in a… His heart palpitated.

"I do," he replied, swallowing at the sudden blockage in his throat. "First threshold. Tradition, you know."

Her white satin dress shimmered as she shifted in his arms. World-heavy. But light and fragile like a dandelion seed at the same time. Paradox after paradox hugged everything into a tight little ball, and he didn't quite think he could get much beyond the fact that her skin was millimeters away from him, but he wanted it closer, and there were at least one-hundred twenty-two pea-sized obstacles in his way. And the bell hop. And the concierge. And… everything. Everything. Before, he'd had words, but now, the adrenaline was settling, and everything else formed a halo around the fact that they were there. Now.

He swallowed, wanting to reach for the silk bow tie that should have been at his neck, but was dangling from his breast pocket instead. Meredith weighed his arms down enough to stop him, but the nervous desire continued, and the memory in his muscles wouldn't go away.

_No matter what Derek did, he couldn't get his tie straight. "Do you have the rings?" he asked as he struggled with his fingers. _

"_Yeah," Mike Weller answered from somewhere behind him. But Derek barely heard the syllable, eclipsed as it was by a roar. _

_Was it fingers over the loop? Or under? Or how did that go again... He should know this. He had an MD. Smart people knew how to tie bow ties. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

_A vice grip squeezed his shoulders and wrenched him away from worrying at the mirror. The reflected world slipped out of view, and the real world spun until he found himself staring at Mike's chiseled, clean-cut face. _

_Mike stared intently at Derek's tie. "Let me get this before you choke yourself," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching with a restrained, buried smile. His tongue slipped between his lips as he stared at his dire task._

_Derek swallowed, felt his best man's fingers at his throat. Thanks, he should have said, but other words commandeered his mouth. "What about Quin? Are you sure you and Melinda are okay taking Quin for two weeks? He's very--"_

_The tie jerked, and Mike inched closer. His face blushed, and the smile he'd tried withhold earlier escaped into a grin. "Derek, we're fine. Mel loves dogs to pieces. You need to breathe, or you won't need the tie to choke yourself."_

"_I know. I know. It's just..."_

"_The whole hospital has a betting pool on you two," Mike informed him. "Not about any ifs. Just whens."_

_Derek frowned, turning back to the long body-length mirror. He sighed and watched the way his tuxedo settled around him. He looked thin and pale. Shaky. His right hand found his hair and wandered back along his scalp, pausing over the c-shaped indentation in his skull as he grimaced at himself. "None of them know me, Mike."_

_Mike stepped up behind him and met his eyes through the mirror. "I think I do." _

_Time seemed to stop and settle in that moment. Derek's breaths came soft and slow. Mike Weller had saved his life. There was a level of intimacy in that sort of connection that no other experience in life could duplicate. In that brief ticktock, ticktock of seconds, Derek found some peace, but then it slipped away again._

_Meredith had done more than save his life. She'd saved his soul. He'd never been more certain of anything. Panic burbled out of his mouth, unrestrained. "What if I--" _

"_Derek," Mike bit out, cutting off the messup messupmessupmessup that had gotten stuck in Derek's head and on his lips. "Nothing will go wrong."_

_Success. He wanted. But... Notafailure._

_Knocks thundered against the door. "Okay, we're approaching fashionably late," a familiar voice said. "What's going on?" Footsteps. Swish, swish, swish across the rug._

"_Nerves," said Mike. "We just need a few more minutes."_

_A warm hand clapped against Derek's shoulder, and the runnels of tension cutting through his bones felt like they were carting ice water. "This again?" Mark said. The deep scent of his cologne eclipsed everything else as he looked over Derek's shoulder into the mirror, eyes sparkling with confident mirth. "She loved you without the hair, man. Of course, you'll work out."_

_You'll mess up. Messupmessupmessup. _

_Derek yanked at his tie. It wasn't straight. It just wasn't straight, and it needed to be. Why? Why-- He let out a shuddering breath that could have been a laugh, were he more relaxed. He shrugged away from Mark and peered at Mike in askance. "They're not betting on our divorce, are they?"  
_

_Mike grinned. "No," he said as he jarred Derek around again and yanked Derek's hands away from his neck. "Relax. Just due dates."_

"_I'm in for Meredith's fifth year of residency. April 15__th__," Mark said. He crossed his arms, and his frame puffed up. "I figure you'll be celebrating pretty hot and heavy when she finishes her fourth year and Webber selects her for chief resident in July." He shifted forward with a grunt as Mike's shoulder slammed against him. _

"_Due..." Derek stuttered as he forced his fidgety hands to stop and stay at his side. "Oh." Ticktock. Ticktock. Ticktock. "Do you have the rings?"_

"_Right," Mark said. "I'll go tell them we need a few more minutes. Fashionably late is out of style, anyway."_

* * *

_"__Izzie, I'm not nervous," Meredith assured her friend, but Izzie continued to babble away as she wandered around Meredith in a frenetic circle, adjusting this curl, fixing that eyelash, smoothing this wrinkle, tilting that bow to the precisely correct angle. She'd taken the maid of honor job very seriously, and apparently felt it was her duty to keep Meredith calm and sedate on this most auspicious day. Except Meredith was already fine, so she resigned herself to watch Izzie buzz about like an upset bee._

_"__See," Izzie jabbered, "The thing you have to remember is that he loves you enough to move the world for you." _

___Meredith sighed. "Izzie..."_

_"__I mean, if he were Superman? He probably would literally. Move. The world. And you already dealt with massive hospital trauma, so you know he's not going to die on you."_

_"__Izzie, shut up," Cristina snapped. "She's not nervous." She lay behind them on a puffy, lacy love seat, sprawled with her knees over the arm, hands behind her head as she pondered the ceiling, un-ladylike and uncaring._

___Meredith nodded, trying not to laugh at Izzie's confused look. "I'm not," Meredith said._

___"She's not?" Izzie asked, looking at Cristina instead of Meredith, as if Meredith weren't a reliable source of information on her own feelings._

___Cristina tilted her gaze to the pair of them and rolled her eyes. "Nope."_

___Izzie turned back to Meredith. "Why?" Izzie demanded._

_"__I don't know," Meredith said, shrugging. "I'm just... not. I should be. I really, really should be. I mean... Look at me. I'm..."  
_

___She was unable to stop her hand from tracing her outline in the mirror. Her hair had been pulled up into a modified French twist, tight blond curls spilling out the top like waterfall. Her gown hugged her body in a swath of simple elegance, its narrow flare at the floor emphasizing the hour-glass of her hips and breasts. A small line of diamonds circled her neck, courtesy of Susan._

___Izzie sighed, her breath accompanied by a high-pitched sound of glee. "Gorgeous."_

___The couch squeaked as Cristina stood up and joined them at the mirror. "He'll like it," she said, her voice flat and begrudging._

___Izzie shoved her._

_"__A lot," Cristina corrected._

_"__Love," Izzie enunciated, glaring at Cristina. "He'll love it."_

___Meredith grinned as her heart began to throb. Cristina sighed. "McMarried," Cristina said._

_"__Yeah. I'm not sure I believe it either," Meredith replied. _

_"__She has a sick, twisted idea that she's found true love," Cristina explained. "Of course she's not nervous."_

___Izzie brushed a hand down Meredith's arm, smoothing more fabric as she resumed her buzz, buzz, buzzing routine. _

_"__I really kind of think I have," Meredith whispered as she watched her body sway in the mirror. Except she really didn't think. She knew. She knew, and it felt..._

___A smile stretched her lips, blush crept across her cheeks, and her eyes started to water._

_"__Oh, my god," Izzie shrieked. "You can't cry! I spent an hour doing your eyes!"_

___Cristina gripped Meredith's shoulders and lay her head against her friend while Izzie ran for the touch-up kit. "Mere?"_

___Meredith sniffed. "What?"_

___"Sometimes, I envy you."_

They were married.

Meredith Grey found herself stuck, rewinding and pausing on that thought enough that were it a cassette, she would have probably rubbed it down into dust by then. Married, married, married. It had a nice ring to it. A... ring. A round-and-round, dizzy sort of ring that didn't make any sense.

Her skin felt hot and alive with crackling energy, and she couldn't help but blink and giggle softly. Married. She twirled her index finger in the hair at the nape of his neck, let the ring on her fourth finger rub against his skin. His body tensed, his sure step skipped, and an adorable hitching moan got stuck against his Adam's apple like a clot of confectionery that he couldn't quite swallow.

A shiver of excitement squeezed her heart for a beat, two beats, three.

"What?" Derek murmured, his eyes widening as he collected himself.

People. There were still people there, she had to remind herself, blinking away the thrill and the constant amazement that she barely had to move to drive him crazy.

She grinned, peering over his shoulder at the bellhop just behind them. The concierge had departed with the camera, saying he'd have the pictures for them when they checked out, but the bellhop still remained. Waiting. Well, not exactly waiting. Still being productive, thus not entirely deserving of her annoyance. But still. Go away, she wanted to yell. I want to be alone with my husband.

Husband. Mine. How did that happen to someone like her? At this point, she didn't quite care. Husband. I-really-did-it.

The thought brought another face-splitting grin ripping across her face.

Bellhop Man winked as he placed the last suitcase in a stack on the luggage tray by the closet. Winked. As if he knew exactly what was going on here. As if he had a clue. "Just wondering when you're going to put me down," she said. "We **are** over the threshold, you know."

"Sir, ma'am, your bags are here. Please feel free to dial the front desk if you should need--" Bellhop Man droned, but Derek, from the looks of him, wasn't paying any attention. None at all. His gaze lingered on her face, his blue eyes hooded but unblinking. She watched his throat ripple as he swallowed again.

"Oh, I have plans," Derek said, his voice rough with... Something.

She rubbed his neck again. "Plans?"

Derek's eyes narrowed as he nodded. Her breath stopped as he absorbed the sight of her, and his gaze glazed with a hint of desperation. His fingers tightened, and she shifted. "Mmm," he decided. "Plans."

"Have a pleasant evening," Bellhop Man continued, his eyes were twinkling with a sort of mirth. He turned to leave. It wasn't until she caught sight of her purse sitting on top of the pile of suitcases that she realized. Stupid. Stupid honeymooners. Wanted to be alone, and all thought processes beyond, "Married! Woo!" had simply ceased. Oops. She forced herself to focus. Just for a moment.

"Plans that include tipping the bellhop?" Meredith prodded. Bellhop Man paused halfway into the hall, turned, and smiled politely. She flexed her knee, and her foot shifted in the air.

Derek blinked. A small breath escaped, almost like a cough, but not quite. "Oh," he said. "Yes. Forgot at check-in."

The room shifted as he tried to get at his wallet, and the world became a juggling act. She would have laughed. Would have. But he seemed almost unwilling to let her go for some reason, and that? That was the sort of thing she could relate to. She leaned into his shirt and sighed, inhaling the spicy scent of his aftershave.

Derek gave up after a few minutes of juggling, and he set her down on the side of the bed so gently it made the breath seize in her lungs as she sank against the mattress. She clutched at the bedspread, letting the harsh weave of the fabric crumple in her palms as she sat there. The ring on his finger flashed, or maybe she had imagined it. The flash. Not his finger. His palm slipped behind the curtain of his black tuxedo and came back with a thin black billfold in tow. Money crumpled as it exchanged hands.

"Thank you, sir," Bellhop Man said. She vaguely heard the door shut followed by distant thuds as he disappeared down the hallway.

A deep sound rumbled through Derek's chest. He pivoted on a foot, staring at her.

"Derek," she said. His name felt like silk in her throat. She resisted the urge to say it again and again and again. She would save that for later.

His body seemed to seize with tension, as though hearing his name had snapped him back to reality. The world moved as though it were caught in one of those stupid six-million-dollar-man moments, where everything slowed to a crawl in order to denote super speed. She'd never really understood that, why they couldn't have things just zip around like they were supposed to.

The rumble-roar of Derek clearing his throat yanked her into the room again in a blink, and she found herself staring at the sleek back of his tuxedo. The door creaked open as he fumbled with the knob. The plastic privacy tag didn't seem to want to grip the handle, but even after his struggle went silent, and he shut the door again, Derek didn't turn around for a long, stretched, fat moment. That was when her quiet ease began to falter. What was... What? Was she doing something wrong?

Her fingers tightened against the bedspread, and her gaze found its way to her shoes. Cute shoes. One-hundred-twenty-dollars worth of cute, strap-y little heeled things that could technically be considered instruments of torture. Another reason why she hadn't protested when he'd insisted on gifting her with a reprieve from gravity.

They'd been checking in, and then the world had tilted back with a whirl. She'd laughed at first. "What on earth are you doing?" she'd said with a throaty chuckle as the room had swayed. But he'd insisted, and she'd wilted under his determined look. He'd humored her about so many things, so she'd relented, and the further he'd carried her, the more she'd settled in to enjoy the ride against him.

The ride, ride... Riding. Naughty. Bad thoughts. But wasn't that the point?

This was their wedding night. Their **wedding night. **I-really-did-it!

In less than a breath, she wasn't sitting there staring at her shoes, wondering why something was weird. He'd throw her down on the bed like a romantic hero in the midst of a torrid affair. Kyrian. Now. The dress would come flying off despite his insistence that it would be difficult. She'd heave and pant like an appropriate, heavily-busted romantic heroine. And then everything would melt away. Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes. She liked that plan. That was a good plan. She wondered when he'd--

Derek inhaled, and the sound of it ripped through the quiet room as though he were the gale, the thunder, and she were the woman caught out in the middle of the woods in the rain. He fiddled with the door handle, staring at it, and then he turned. His eyes narrowed as he stared at her, wantonly letting his gaze roam from her toes to her face, but then it all disappeared. He stood at the door, unmoving, but... She swore she could detect a fine shimmer of movement. His hair...

The top two buttons of his tuxedo shirt had come undone as the evening had worn on and he'd presumably wanted to relax a bit more. Just a hint of his alabaster chest peeked out. The ends of his bow tie dangled from the breast pocket of his jacket. His coiffed hair had fallen loose out of impeccable style. An unruly curl swept down over his forehead.

When she stared at it, she could see it. He shook.

Something inside her broke apart when she realized. And then nothing mattered. She wanted to shove him against the door and... go. Go, go, go. Because this was... They were married. They'd been good for two months. She was hungry. And she loved him.

"Well, there's a bed," he said, breaking the expanse of silence. His breath whuffed with quiet laughter. But he didn't move away from the door, and when she searched for the playful sparkle in his eyes, it wasn't there.

"Mmm," she purred, trying to imitate her favorite sound of his, trying to... It's okay, she wanted to say. It's okay. You're perfect to me. You're perfect, and you're mine, and I love you. Instead, she merely agreed with a nod and a sly, "And walls."

He ran his fingers through his hair and swallowed deeply. "Yeah," he said. His eyes had found the bed. He watched it. Stared.

"Derek," she said when he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away. "I love you."

His frame wilted against the door, and he took a deep breath. "I don't want to mess this up." His breath hitched. "I don't want to..."

She stood, stepped forward, and he stilled. The spicy scent of him wafted against the back of her throat. His body thumped against the back of the door. She slipped her palms against the cotton of his shirt, underneath his jacket, and slid them against his body. Shifting in her arms, he groaned. "Mere."

"You won't mess this up, Derek. If you mess this up, there's really no hope for me, is there?" she said.

He leaned over her shoulder and his nose found her neck. He breathed against her. His knee nudged hers, as if he were trying to spread her apart, trying to find her center. He rubbed against her, his breath becoming a low purr. "You're perfect, Mere," he assured her, as if the mere suggestion of her being without hope was an abomination. "You're... You can't..."

"If I'm perfect, I can't be wrong. Right?"

"I guess not." He chuckled. "Is this okay?"

She nodded. "This is okay, Derek."

___She found him sprawled on a reclining lawn chair on the dock by the lake, but the chair had been turned away from the water toward a muddy bank of land on the left. His head had tilted to the side when he'd fallen asleep, as if he'd simply nodded off while staring absently at the reeds and the edge of the water and... Their house. Well, what would be their house. _

___A small plank of wood with a spray-painted orange stripe at the top sat embedded in the mud. The contractor had visited the day before with a pack of surveyors, and it had been weird. Weird but thrilling. Thrilling to discuss their final thoughts on the blueprints she and Derek had slaved over with the designer. Discussing final thoughts, all while she had swapped her stare between Derek and the big gray bird things that darted in and out of the reeds. Herons, she corrected herself. Derek had said they were herons. _

___She left him alone at first, instead choosing to dart past him and turn around, trying to frame what he'd been looking at in her mind. She felt a little silly holding out her fingers like a square in front of her, but it made the world seem... Quaint. Like a postcard from a small village on the water. Idyllic. Which brought her to the problem at hand. Where in the post-card-y idyllic world would she be in May? She couldn't repress the smile that tore across her face as she tiptoed up behind him._

_"__So, where do you want to go?" she asked as she leaned over his shoulder and slid her hands down his chest._

___"Hmm," he purred as his eyes slid open. His palm found her chin, and he leaned up and kissed her throat. As he pulled away, his lips parted in a small yawn, and two blinks took the blear of sleep away, which relaxed his face into a pleased but awake grin. "Go?"_

___"On our honeymoon," she replied. "You said we could go anywhere, but you can't tell me you don't have any idea where you want to go. Don't you have a list? I'd always wanted to go to France. Except I already went, so, no great desire for French anymore, but--"_

___"Stop," he said with a laugh, reaching for her. She skipped back, only to have his other arm ensnare her. The world tilted as he tripped her over the handle of the chair, and she landed with a squeak in his lap. His stare grew dark with hunger. "You're just making me think about planes," he said._

_"__As in sex-on-a-plane, or grr, arggh, flying?"_

___His lip twitched, but otherwise he ignored her. "I really don't have any idea where we should go, Mere. We agreed on a beach."_

___"We did."_

___"Beaches, and I..." His voice hitched. He coughed, his gaze growing darker still, and she felt the fingers of his left hand flex around her shoulder, more firm than a gentle touch, but not harsh. When he spoke again, the words were raw to their bones. "You were so hot against the wall in that--"  
_

___Sex-on-a-plane, then._

___"How about Key West?" she blurted._

___"Okay," he whispered as he dipped his head into the juncture of her shoulder and her neck. Something soft and wet touched her, something... tongue. He was licking--_

___"It's close!" she snapped as she flinched away. Hot. She looked up to find that the sun still wasn't out. A thick layer of gray hovered overhead, masking a bright circle to the west. Why was it so hot? Hot and-- "Close-ish," she corrected. The murky, earthy scent of the water and reeds and mud melted behind a curtain of his musk, and she resisted the urge to let him-- To-- "Close-ish to Connecticut, so you wouldn't be stuck in a plane forever," having sex! "and--"  
_

___A soft breath of his laughter laved her skin, and she sighed. Do not relax. Do not relax, she swore to herself. Do. Not. No! No relaxing! Be good!_

* * *

___Stop, he told himself. Stop, stop, stop. Be good. Despite the fact that she was curled in his lap, rubbing up against his--_

___"Mere, I can deal with a plane trip," Derek murmured. "Especially if--" You're there. Close. Closer. "I mean. If you want Italy or Greece or something half a day away, I'll live. Don't pick something on home soil just because--"_

___"And there's Hemingway's house," she babbled. Her tiny frame jerked restlessly against his, as if she wanted to move but was forcing herself to hold still and not aggravate the situation further. He closed his eyes and tried to relax as he listened to the cadence of her voice. "You could see all the polydactyl cats with seven toes, and see where the Bell Tolled for Whom, and all that stuff."_

___He snorted. "Cats."_

___"Yes, cats," she confirmed, as though they were discussing the fact that yes, the sky? Gray. He kept his eyes closed, but was unable to stop his index finger from tracing the line of her spine. She sighed and shifted. Closer. The lake fell away from his awareness, and he breathed, breathed, breathed. Lavender. Heartbeats. Just her._

___"Meredith..."_

___"What?" she gasped._

___He let his eyelids drift open, and found her soft, gray pupils inches from his own. She licked her lips, and the raw desire staring back at him made him fall apart. "I want you," he said. He pushed into her, jouncing her on the chair. She squeaked and swallowed. She had a long, pale, delicate throat that he wanted to ply. To touch. To... _

___A groan rumbled out of his chest as her face reddened, and she looked down._

___"No sex!" she scolded his lap, as though his brain had nothing to do with it. "Stop! Focus." She sighed, agitated, and shifted in his lap again, which didn't help. At all. He slid his eyes shut and inhaled. One, two... Three. Thre-- no, four. Four, right? He found her frowning when he looked at her again. "Sorry," she whispered, and then her pitch rose into a rant. "But we should have figured this out ages ago. Why do we keep putting it off? I mean, honestly. Is it that hard to figure out what location in the world we want to spend having magic sex until we can't walk?"  
_

___Sex. Sex. Se--_

___"It's been two weeks since..." he managed._

___Her fingers tightened against his neck. "And it's supposed to have been two months!" she snapped. He felt his hair getting pulled and tangled and twisted. Except it felt good. Not painful. She did that when they were making love. Or kissing. Or... He wanted more. And more. He took a deep, cleansing breath, but it didn't seem to help._

___"I don't care where we go, Meredith," he snarled, unable to stop himself. "I just want you." Now. Two weeks without was torture. Pain. Awful. Needed it to end. "I want you on the beach, and in the bed, and on the balcony like I promised, and--"_

___His words drowned in her mouth when she kissed him._

___"I want you, too," she whispered when she pulled away. Millimeters. Millimeters between him and more._

___He stared. "Please."_

___"Derek, no," she said, her voice soft. Not scolding. She wanted this. She really... "No, we can't, we--"_

___"Key West is fine," he replied, leaning against her. She tasted good. Like strawberries. He breathed, nosing through her hair. He found the small spot behind her ear that was ticklish._

___"Key West," she said. "Derek..."  
_

___No, his inner voice wailed. He wanted to touch her more. But... Magic. You're supposed to give her magic. On her wedding night. Stop. Stop it, now. Right now. You don't want to mess this wedding up before it even starts. Right?_

___Right. Stop._

___"I'm stopping," he whispered._

___Her nails traced runnels in his hair. "No, you're not."_

___"I'm not," he confessed._

___"I'm not either." She sighed, and the soft touches ceased. Her frame hitched as she breathed deep. "On three."_

___"One, two, and then stop?" he murmured. "Or stop after..."_

___"After," she confessed as she leaned in for one last taste. "We get one extra... second."_

___"Mmm," he agreed as she collapsed into him, a whirlwind of touching and tasting. He let the seconds pass. Their counting was glacial. _

___When she pulled away, panting, he was okay. He was okay, because later? On their night? He would definitely give her magic. _

The mattress sank with a vague moan as he sat down beside her, wordless, silent. She watched him through hooded gray eyes, and the silence stretched into infinity. She breathed. Her eyelids swept down, and the glitter of her pupils disappeared for a blink. Long, soft, brown, each eyelash seemed almost holy. Meredith. He wanted to kiss them. Meredith. He wanted to touch her.

Meredith... He wanted everything about her.

A nervous laugh rumbled out of his mouth as he stared at her. "Is it weird that I don't even know where to start?"

Her eyes ticked back and forth as she stared at him. Without speaking, she raised her palms and slid them against his chest. He sighed as the fabric of his shirt rustled, as the warmth of her skin seeped through the cotton. "It takes two," she said, and in those words he found a little comfort. Nerves loosened. "Maybe I should start."

Magic. Not all on you. Relax.

"Flip you for it?" he murmured, and she laughed. Laughed, and he melted more, though he couldn't stop his tone from wavering. How could she do this? How could this woman flatten out his nervous kinks with just a sound?

His heartbeat slowed, and then it started to thunder, for a different reason than nerves. For passion. For wanting. He licked his lips.

"You don't have to be nervous, Derek," Meredith said. "Wherever it is you think I should be right now, I'm there. I swear. We're there."

His body shook. "I didn't even have this much trouble on the damned plane."

For a moment, she stared. Her lip quivered, as if she didn't know what to do. Pity, perhaps. Meredith, confusion, and sex didn't work together. It had to be him. Anger welled in his soul. He wasn't supposed to mess this up. He wasn't supposed to-- "Meredith, I'm so sor--"

"Shut up," she snapped. Her eyes blazed. "Shut up, and kiss me, Derek."

He swallowed. "Yes, ma'am." He started awkwardly at first, awkward and unsure, and he sort of hated himself for it. He'd kissed people before. He'd kissed her before. He'd kissed her until she couldn't breathe or think or speak. Now, he fumbled. How was this magic? But then she moaned. Deep and low, like a cat, and it drew him in. Their hands fell into conflict. She wanted. He took. She took. He wanted. Clash. His fingers interweaved with hers. He and Meredith wavered together like a pair of dancers, arms outstretched.

"Kiss me again," she murmured, and he fell into rapture. He couldn't breathe. The world started to tumble, and he forgot about the room. The shivers racing through him changed gears. Thrill instead of nervous energy.

"Again," she said, the barest whisper, and he did.

When he paused to take a breath and reinvigorate, his body tensed and tightened, but not with nerves, with urge. Urge to feel the fire and go. Urge. Need. She stared at him, gaze deep and unblinking, her face flushed, desire thrumming in every feature.

He panted. "How do you always do this?"

Her gaze narrowed. "Magic," she replied, in a tone that thundered down his spine like a burst of octane.

"I love you," he said.

Her expression melted. "Definitely magic."

"Do I get this kind of treatment on the plane tomorrow?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

The flat of his hand found her cheek, and he rubbed his thumb along the ridge of her cheekbone. Soft. Silk. Supple. "Yes," she moaned. She tilted her head, and he raked his fingers back along her scalp. He got caught in bobby pins and barrettes and other things, and so he focused on those. One at a time. Watching in the silence as her hair came free and tumbled to her shoulders.

Ten minutes before, he would have thought this bumbling. Silly. But he focused past that. She liked his fingers in her hair. Twisting. Running. He could see it in her face, the way her breath slowed and skipped, the way her stare deepened. She liked it. Relax. Not all on you.

"I like your hair down," he said.

Her nose crinkled. "It's gross right now," she said. "It's a twisty block of hairspray."

He quirked a grin at her. "There's always the shower, you know." The hopeful look in her eyes gave him ideas. Thoughts. Gave him fuel. He burned. More.

"The bend-y thing?" she said.

He smirked. "Maybe."

Her smile turned into pouting as she took him down into another well of fire with a kiss. "But I love the bend-y thing," she sighed against his ear. "Only maybe?"

He panted, blinking, trying to keep purchase on himself. Then we'll do it, he wanted to say. Because she wanted, and she would get and she-- Had him wrapped around her little finger. A frustrated growl rattled in the space between them as he clawed for something. Magic. He was supposed to give her magic. He'd damned well give her magic, but not if she was going to trick him into--

"Beg me," he said.

"Please."

"That was lacking."

"Please, Derek."

"I suppose we can do that if you want," he murmured, fighting for nonchalance, but it wasn't working, wasn't working at all. He pushed her back. Her dress rustled. Her body squirmed underneath him, and he felt like he was going to explode. He couldn't stop himself from thrusting against her. His groin met with hers, painfully separated by pants and lace and other things. How was this magic? This wasn't--

She moaned as he palmed her throat and kissed her until he had to pull back to breathe. She moaned, her eyes rolled back, and the purest expression of bliss he'd ever seen swathed her features with a tension that looked almost like pain. Her body arched backward. Her fingers found the lapels of his jacket, and she clawed at him. The tension remained in her muscles, and her breathing lashed against him like a whip. Her expression screamed. Two months. Two months without you. The turmoil he'd tried to hide found its mirror image in her, except she wasn't hiding at all.

She bore her soul to him. She bore it, and all the things that came with it, beautiful or ugly, all for him.

In the space between her current pant and the next, a millisecond of silence wrapped around them like a cloak. "You're all mine," he managed, but the words barely made sense. It wasn't a command, or a haughty statement, or anything. It was a moment. Of realization.

"What?" she murmured. Her eyes opened. Her stare was glassy. She was already in her dream. With him. She smiled. Her fingers raked his sleeve and pulled him down, down, down. He let himself fall.

He recovered, barely. All his. Never to part. He smiled as the thrill and jubilation made him want to burst.

"Please," she said. "We're there, Derek. We're already there, and I want you."

"Yes," he nodded, finally able to agree. He'd found it. He'd found what he'd been looking for. He'd found it in her stare and in her breath and in her scent. He'd found it, and he wouldn't ever forget it.

Magic. He didn't feel like he'd been married before. He felt new.

"But first thing's first," he said as he took command, a thrill of triumph overwhelming him. Oh yes, he still had his game, and he would play. He sat up. He reached into his pocket, almost wanting to laugh at her anticipatory look of glee, only to watch it burst in a flutter of discombobulation as he continued, "I'm hiding my tie."

She burst into laughter as he crumpled up his bow tie with a clenched fist. "I'm not going to tie you up unless you ask me to," she said as she recovered.

"Really?" He quirked an eyebrow. "I don't trust you. You're very untrustworthy in this hotel."

"Am not!"

"Are too!" he countered. "One-hundred percent of the nights we've spent here, I've been tied up."

"But that was just one!"

"Still, it's a bad record if I do say so myself," he said. "Mistress Meredith is a dangerous creature." Because she only has to ask. And I'm in pieces. I am glass. I am hers.

Her eyes glinted. "Is she?"

"Oh, yes," he said, relaxing into a low moan as her fingers slipped against the buttons of his dress shirt. "She definitely is." Pop went the first button. Pop went the second. Pop. Skin slid against skin, and his body screamed. Not fair. She was still in her dress. Take this back, his body roared.

"You know, you're the one who's bringing this up," she whispered against his ear. He leaned into her and met the slice of her teeth. Nibbling. Licking. "Are you sure you're not subliminally hinting?"

He panted. "Subliminally what?"

"Maybe you want to be tied up," she said.

"I don't think so."

"I do," she said. Her palms slid back against his shoulders, and his tuxedo jacket fell to the bed. How had she turned this around? How had she... "You're very passive aggressive," she continued. "You don't always say what you want. You imply it."

"I want you," he growled, leaning his weight against her. She tilted, and he meandered along her throat. Sucking. Teasing. Take this back. Take her. "Is that direct enough?" He captured her mouth, ripping away her replies as they became a twist and tangle of wanting in her throat. A soft moan rumbled against his teeth. She was his. She wasn't going to turn this around. Not yet.

She drew away, panting. Her lips, swollen, deep cherry, scrunched as she explored them with her tongue. Battlefield. Was he winning or losing, and did he care? Yes, yes, yes. She laughed, rubbing an index finger along his cheek. Her nail came away with flecks of dark lipstick. "You mean you want me to tie you up," she said, hamstringing any sort of hope he had that he'd flummoxed her into submission.

"Thank you, no," he said. "How will I touch you if I'm trussed up like a--"

She kissed him. Deep and full and lusty. Her fingers squirmed against his shirt, the bed came up to meet them as they tilted to the side, and then his shirt disappeared behind him. His suit jacket rubbed his bare shoulder, but he didn't care. Pieces. She took him to pieces. He moaned against the fullness of her lips. Moaned and surrendered. It definitely took two. The room blurred, only to snap back when he felt her inching toward his pocket.

He ripped his tie out of her grasp. "Nice try," he said.

"Bastard," she hissed.

"Nobody's touching anyone until we get you out of this dress."

"You mean you're not touching me."

"Well—"

"Men are so much easier to undress," she said as she ran a palm against the flat plane of his stomach. Up. Into the whorl of hair between his pectorals. He breathed, hitched, sighed. She licked her lips. "Just zippers, five buttons, and boom. Done."

He rolled onto his back, trying to recollect himself, but she came with him and rested atop him. "That's a good thing," he said, staring up at her. Her index finger idly stroked his bicep.

"Really?"

"Oh, yes," he whispered. Hands. He brought his palm up and brushed her cheek. Her skin had flushed, and she smelled like lavender and sweat, sex and his cologne, and it made him dizzy. Dizzy with want. Her hair twisted around his fingertips as he ran his palm against her head. "We finish faster. We need less..." Past her scalp. Down her neck. He hit the bump where the dress started, and he kept going, down her spine, softly over the ripples of each button and curve. "Unbuttoning."

She grinned. "Are you saying I'm a lot of work?"

"I wouldn't call this work."

"What would you call it?"

"Hmm." He breathed, tipping up to kiss her. "Delicious torture."

"You speak like a man who wants to be tied up."

"I might have a stroke if you do that." He needed.

"I would definitely stroke you."

"No," he growled, summoning all his will and strength, and he rolled them until he was there. In command. Owning the moment. Magic. He found the first set of buttons and gently popped them open. Only one-hundred twenty to go. His mind screamed. Everything screamed. "I want you," he panted. "I want you, now."

One-hundred eighteen.

One-hundred sixteen.

One-hundred fourteen...

And the fire burned.

___He found her in the residents' lounge. Residents'. He'd paused at the doorway, his fingers impulsively going to the plaque beside the door. Residents'. Meredith. He smiled before stepping across the threshold._

___She sat at the far table by the refrigerator, engrossed by a pad of paper. She tapped the pen in her hand on the table while she twirled and twined a strand of sun-brightened hair around the index finger of her other hand. Twirl, twirl, twirl. Tap, tap, tap. Twirl tap. Twirl tap. _

_"__You're staring," she growled without looking up as she lowered the pen to scratch something out. Viciously. Her lips drew into a grim line, and her eyes narrowed. _

___Frowning, he approached. "I'm not allowed to stare?"_

___"No."_

___He pulled a chair behind her, leaned in, and kissed her neck. "Not even at my fiancé?" he murmured. _

_"__No." The pen slammed down on the table and she let loose a growling sound of disgust. "I can't. I can't do this, Der."  
_

___His heart stilled. For a vague moment, he wasn't sure what to say. She's finally running. She's finally going to freak out about all this and run. Calm. Stay calm. Don't flip out. You always flip out before— Talktalktalk. "Can't do what?" he said evenly._

___She stared at him. Her skin reddened, the muscles in her jaw clenched. She was going to-- "This!" she snarled as her hands flailed at the offending sheet of paper. She ripped the top sheet and crumpled it into a pulp before he had a chance to see what was on it. Her tiny frame heaved, and even though her frustration unsettled him, he felt his tension unwinding, uncoiling. This wasn't about them. This was something work-related. He wanted to shake himself for being happy. Because __**she**__ wasn't happy. And whatever this was, it mattered to her._

_"__Okay," he said, his voice low and soothing. He inched his chair forward and rubbed her back with the flat of his palm. "Maybe I can help you..." He reached around her shaking frame and took the crumpled paper from her fingers. She didn't resist. She didn't anything. _

_"__They're stupid," she said._

___Frowning, he smoothed the paper out on the table. "Nothing you do is stupid. You're brilliant Mere. I'm sure this is--" He stared. He blinked. He swallowed. The words on the sheet slapped him with reality. Hard. "Vows?"_

___Something inside of him quivered. Vows, you hopeless coward. She's not running. Not..._

___"Yes, I'm writing vows!" she snapped. "Okay? Vows. Stupid, stupid vows. I mean... How am I supposed to freaking fit..." She looked up at him, her eyes blazing. Her hand made a weird gesture. You. Me. "This..." You and me. "Into a paragraph?"_

___He swallowed again, speechless as she fumbled with her ring finger. The diamond engagement ring sparkled even in the dim light. "These aren't stupid," he offered, his voice barely serving as sound. He cleared his throat with an awkward rumble. "Mere," he said as he recovered. "These are __**not **__stupid."_

_"__They're stupid."_

___He kissed her ear. "You know our song."_

___"Our song?"_

___"Our song."_

___She blinked as it sank in. "You can read me anything," she said, echoing some of the lyrics._

___"Yes." Exactly. _

___She stared. For a long time, she didn't say anything, but as he watched, her frame loosened, and a little sigh fell from her lips. Her eyes plead with him. Can I ask you anything? Can I? I can, she decided, if her determined look were anything to go by. "What did you do?" she said. "With her?_

___He licked his lips. "A speech."_

___"A speech?"_

___He smiled as he looked at the crumpled paper. "A really corny, sappy speech."_

___Her chair squeaked as she shoved it back and shifted. Her body leaned against him, ear to his chest. She sighed. "How did it go?" Her palm found his chest and the lapel of his lab coat. Her touch raced down the line of button holes. Warmth. "Is it weird that I want to know?"_

* * *

___"__No," he said without pause. But it just made her feel worse. No pausing meant he was placating her. Right? Placating. He hadn't thought about it at all, and it __**was **__a freakish question. He didn't even take time to digest... anything. He didn't. There was a difference between being sure and being patronizing. Yes. Right. There was!_

_____She was a freak. "It's weird. I knew it," she babbled, unable to stop the rush of words, the rush of saving face. The rush of back-pedaling. "I'm being weird... A weird..." A freaking freakish freak who was obsessed with whether she was lesser or just different. Different, a tiny voice screamed. He's proven to you over and over and over and over and over that you're just... different._

_____Not lesser. Not._

_____He sighed against her skin. His palms slipped down her arms and she found her fingers interlocking with his. It felt good. It didn't feel good. It did! She was being silly. "Meredith..." he said._

_____"I'm sorry," she said, vomited, babbled, bled. "It's just that this is new, and I don't know what I'm doing, and it's vows, Derek. I can't write vows. Bad poet, remember? Bad. Freaking. Poet."_

_____The rumble in his throat vibrated against her ear. His palms squeezed, and he enveloped her. "I, Derek," he whispered in a low soothing rumble, "Take thee Meredith, to be my lawfully wedded wife."_

_____"Well, I..." She stuttered, moaning as he nibbled at her ear. "Well, yeah."_

_____"I told her she was the love of my life," he said._

_____Sinking. She'd never felt so small in his arms before. "Oh."_

_____"Meredith..."_

_____"What?"_

_____"I died," he told her hair. His soft breaths rustled through the loose strands. You did, she wanted to say. Oh, god, you really almost did. But then he continued, "On that night. When I found her with Mark." Different. Realm of thought. Entirely. She blinked. "You're not the love of my life," he told her. No hesitation. No placation. Certainty. "You're my heaven."  
_

_____The analog clock on the wall ticked as she stared at him._

_____That... That was... That was just... _

_____Burning heat lashed across her skin like a brushfire. She snorted. And then she giggled. His arms tightened around her. _

___"__I'm sorry," she gasped. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Laugh. Chuckle. "It's just that that was..."_

_____The chairs creaked. His body shifted. She couldn't see his face, couldn't help but wonder if she'd wounded him with her heartless response. But she couldn't help it, and her chest imploded, or at least it surely felt that way. She couldn't keep the air in. Couldn't. Inhale. Enough. Oxygen. She giggled as the room blurred with her tears and black, fuzzy spots formed in her vision. _

_____Stress. _

_____This is what happens when you stress too much. Freak! Queen of England! No, freak! Her skin shivered. Vows shouldn't be stressful. And so she laughed. And it didn't stop. Not for a while._

_____He let her chortle on her own, but when she finally twisted her torso around to look at him, she found him red-faced, mirthful, eyes twinkling. "See?" he said, a rough cough rattling his frame. He wasn't laughing, but not because he didn't want to. "A really corny speech," he added as if he'd read her mind. He probably had. He was so good at that. Knowing all her nuances. Interpreting Meredith-speech, which, really, should have been classified as a language all on its own. _

_____He gifted her with a rueful, apologetic grin. "Really corny speeches are all I'm capable of when it comes to love."  
_

___"__Oh, shut up," she said with a giggle. "You know you could read the telephone book, and it would sound like sex."_

_____His eyebrows raised. "Don't you mean it would sound sexy?"_

___"__No," she countered. "I definitely mean it would sound like sex."_

___"__I can't really imagine reading a phone book during sex."_

___"__Whatever. You turn corny things into sex."_

_____"I can't help it," he said with a wink that made her want to die. "It's a quality."_

_____She tipped up and kissed him. Long and deep. "It so is," she growled._

_____He grinned. "If I read you your medical textbook, would you--"_

_____"No," she snapped. "No sex, damn it. Remember?"_

_____"Mmm," he purred, pouted, moaned. "But you said--"_

_____"I say stupid things," she countered as she wiped her face with her palms and rewound. "All the time. And you know it." Be kind, rewind! "And it's not corny, Derek," she protested. _

_____The look on his face was sheer astonishment, and his eyes clouded with a confused, well why were you laughing then? sort of haze. "Okay, well, that speech thing about heaven was really corny," she continued. "But it's not... The thing we're being corny about isn't corny... And I don't want..." Stupid, stupid, stupid freaking vows. "I guess we couldn't just stare at each other?"_

_____He snorted. "That would be a little corny, Mere."_

_____"Yeah," she agreed softly. "I guess it kind of would."_

Derek had a look. The sex-with-Meredith look. His eyelids would droop a fraction over his sparkling irises, and the personality in his stare would blur as though someone had smudged it with an eraser. His features would tighten with hunger as he made clear three very important words.

Want.

Mine.

Now.

Derek had had that wicked, barely-controlled look all evening, and she'd expected her dress to get ripped off the moment they'd crossed the hotel room threshold. She'd expected a war of skin against skin, touching, sliding, needing. And at the pinnacle, cradled between the remnants of a torn wedding dress and the weight of her sweaty, working husband (husband!), she'd expected bliss.

She'd expected a brushfire. Something fast, out of control, and vague in the sense that chaos was vague. Like an emergency in surgery. Thrilling. But blurred. Because there were always so many things going on that the specifics of where the scalpel was and what scrub cap the attending was wearing that day disappeared into the sheer act of doing, into the roar. Except this wasn't thrill. Or fear. Or the crunch of chaos. It was just... Rapture. Or... She didn't know. But it certainly wasn't fast, out of control, or in any way vague.

He'd overcome his nerves, but he hadn't returned to the want, mine, now persona she'd expected, not even close. Her wedding dress lay on the floor next to his discarded tuxedo in a white, frothy heap, each button neatly and carefully undone and open, not ripped or torn or popped off, and her? He'd splayed her underneath him and approached every inch of her skin as though it were the buttons he'd tried so very hard to maintain some civility with.

Delicate. Do not break.

"Okay?" his voice rumbled as he worshiped her from toe to hip, lips trailing over her skin.

"Mmm," she managed to moan, clutching at his hair. "Yes." Her breath hitched as he found the underside of her knee with a feather-light touch. "Stop asking me that." His fingers brushed her calf, and she flexed, inhaling the sharp, remnant scent of his aftershave. "I'm freaking fine." More than fine. She leaned back against the pillow, willing herself to focus – except he found the spot she loved, near her femoral artery, and he lick-- Focus. Foc-- Fuck. "Really fine," she squeaked, wanting to bemoan the fact that this simply wasn't fair.

He was too far gone to chuckle. The look in his eyes was deep and strained and blissful, very much the sex-with-Meredith look as he slid up against her and met her eyes. "Okay," he replied, his voice an octave lower than it should have been. His gaze roamed her face, irises ticking back and forth as he soaked in the sight of her.

Her breaths came in short, effort-ridden gasps that she couldn't quite muster the effort to control. Everything inside her body tightened more with every heartbeat, until she couldn't help but grind backward into the bed or forward into him or whatever might relieve the freaking pressure in her groin, in her abdomen, everywhere. He'd stroked and licked and teased her into the pain of the near-oblivion. She couldn't even bring herself to feel guilty for letting him do all the work because every time she formed a thought, he obliterated it. She was ready, and she was ready now. Her toes curled, gripping the sheets, and another whine escaped.

He gave her a dark, withering look and a haughty smile that said in a faux Super-Derek voice only her ecstasy-tripped mind could conjure, "My work here is done. Or is it only beginning?" Oh, she wanted. Wanted!

Revenge. More bliss. Whatever. Anything.

Fleeting down his shoulder, she found his hips. It had been months. Two months. And he had spent twenty minutes on torturous foreplay. Unbuttoning. Stupid dress. She splayed her fingers against his lower spine. He leaned to kiss her clavicle, and her fingers, barely relaxed before, tightened into a rake. Skin shifted as she clawed at him, wrapping her legs around his back. "For the freaking love of god, go," she growled.

He licked his lips and grinned. "I'm not quite sure this is magical yet."

Her lips peeled away from her teeth as she arched into him. Anything. She wanted. Let her go. "It's fucking magical. It is. Oh, Jesus, it freaking is. Please. Just fuck me."

His eyebrows raised. One of her hands found his hair – damp, just a bit sweaty -- and she clawed again, moaning. His body shuddered, and the vague look of being in control snapped and shattered, leaving his dark sex-with-Meredith stare behind.

Want.

Mine.

Now.

And he took.

She gasped as he filled her with a single thrust. She squeezed around him, thrumming with shock and thrill, and then... She sighed. He bared his teeth in an animalistic expression, and feeling him inside her nourished one defining thought. I know you. I know you at your worst, your best, and all the spaces in between. Nobody else has seen you make the sex-with-Meredith face. It's mine.

Want. Mine. Now.

Everything else fell away from her.

His hot breaths gusted against her face as she watched his expression morph and change. He was losing whatever battle he was fought. A bluster of a bashful smile replaced the dark wanting for a moment. "Oh, this could be embarrassing," he offered breathlessly. His whole body shuddered.

He slid in and out once, and she was gone as the world started to tilt. The pressure released, and she jammed her body against his. Falling. She was. Oh, god. Freak-- She didn't know if she moaned or shrieked or said something sensical. It didn't matter. There was a roaring sound in her ears. Him, maybe. Maybe not. His torso ground into hers. He twitched and panted, and it was done.

He lay still, mostly on top of her, shifted slightly to keep the weight off, breathing. "Yeah," he croaked, a small grunt of air following that could have been a laugh if he'd expended more effort. "That could have gone better."

She twirled her fingers in his hair, smiling. "No, it really couldn't."

He grinned back at her, lecherous, dark. "We can go again," he said, panting. "I can go again. I can." He didn't move. "In a minute."

Time seemed to slow as she lay against him. She stroked his back idly, connecting his sixteen freckles with invisible lines. Like constellations. Want. Mine. Now. Nobody else's. She watched the ceiling, blissed out, spent. Two seconds of sex, and she was blissed out and spent. How did that happen?

"Magic," she whispered.

"Hmm?" he rumbled.

___"__Meredith Shepherd," Meredith whispered as she shuffled four nameplates back and forth. They flickered in the dull lighting of the residents' lounge. She sat at the small round table, the one that had been technically deemed the lunch table, and sighed. No lunch for Meredith Grey. Or was it Meredith Shepherd? Meredith Shepherd-Grey? Meredith Grey-Shepherd? Madame Anonymous? Jane Doe? She didn't know._

_____She hadn't really thought about it seriously before. Names had been a tiny detail in a freaking monsoon of details. Huge details that were a little more demanding. Like what guests to invite? How long should the honeymoon be? What day did the contractors break ground for building their house? But then Izzie had bought Meredith nameplates. For her office, which was kind of silly, because there was limited space, and people didn't even get offices at Seattle Grace until they were attendings. But Izzie was a silly, sentimental person. And she... Whatever. Meredith had nameplates._

_____She glanced up at Derek, who was paying very little attention to her at that moment. He was sprawled on the couch, face buried in some notes for a trial study on spinal tumors he'd been in the middle of before his accident and was finally able to devote serious time to again. His pen ripped across the paper, and all that surgeon-y focus he possessed was directed at the words the ink was forming. She smiled anyway. He seemed to have been hanging out in the residents' lounge more than his own office lately. _

___"__I like the view better," he'd said when she'd asked. _

_____She turned her gaze back to the table. The Meredith Shepherd tag sat in front of the others, almost glowing. It seemed perfect, really. It seemed... "Meredith Shepherd," she said, this time louder, trying it out on her tongue. It rumbled through her throat and settled on the air like a sticky sort of caramel. Smooth. Rich. She wanted more. Definitely perfect._

_____Derek's pen stopped scratching across his notepad. He looked up. "What?"_

___"__Meredith Shepherd," she repeated. "I think I like the sound of it."_

_____He blinked. "You do?"  
_

___"__Yeah." She smiled. "I think I do." _

___"__You're not keeping--"_

___"__Why should I?" she snapped. Meredith Grey. It was the name she'd had for over thirty years of her life. But for some reason, she didn't feel the need to mark its passing into history. Meredith Grey was..._

_____Gone. Damaged freak of nature... gone. She liked who she'd become, and that wasn't Meredith Grey anymore. _

_____Derek shrugged as he placed his notes down on the seat cushion beside him. "I just thought you'd keep it," he said. "It's a huge name to lose, and--"_

___"__It's a great name to drop, Derek," she interrupted. "Your family is more mine than mine ever was. I..." Her voice fell away. He'd never pressured her. Never even asked her if she was going to take his name. The fight drained away. Derek Shepherd. Already a world-class neurosurgeon. He'd made a name for himself. Maybe he hadn't bothered her about it because... "You don't mind, do you?"_

* * *

_____He blinked as the confident spark glimmering in her eyes muted and dulled. He stood up, leaving his notes behind, and launched toward the table. She had nameplates arrayed in front of her. A smile twitched at his lips. Every single iteration of her name that involved Shepherd had usurped Meredith Grey, which hung at the back, lonely, discarded, and he couldn't help but feel a rush of... Something broke in his chest. He didn't know what, but it became hard to breathe. She really..._

___"__No, I don't mind," he said, his voice rumbling low against his throat when he found it again. "Why on earth would I mind?"_

_____She leaned into the hand he'd placed on her shoulder. "Because I'm going to be an astounding neurosurgeon, too," she said. In a fluid motion she stood and turned, and what little of himself he'd recovered, she obliterated with a sly, dangerous smile. The sparkle in her eyes returned and he felt like he was staring at flawless diamonds. _

___"__You will," he managed. "Dr. Shepherd."_

_____Her lip twitched. "Me." She stepped closer._

___"__You," he confirmed._

___"__Me, Derek," she whispered. Her arms slipped around his waist, underneath his lab coat, and he breathed softly as she melded against him. "I'm... me."_

_____He kissed her forehead. "And I love the you that you are."_

___"__And the we that we are," she said. She looked up at him, diamonds relentless, and the breath caught in his throat. "We'll be a good team."_

_____He inhaled deeply, trying to gain some footing. Lavender. Like a drug. She constantly overwhelmed him with the mere fact that she was his. Somehow. "Oh, yes," he whispered. "Definitely a good team."_

_____They already were._

"Are you still in Egypt?" Meredith murmured.

Derek regarded her through the blur of his eyelashes. He'd been watching her skin, staring at the way the fine blond hairs on her arm shifted back and forth as he stroked her idly with his palm. They were like reeds, cowing to the wind, and he found fascination there. Fascination as he rested against her, fascination and warmth. Cool air from the buzzing air conditioner laved his naked hip, his back, his thigh. It didn't bother him. He shifted closer.

"There is no Egypt here," he replied. "I can go again."

The whisper of her fingers at the nape of his neck paused. "You're not moving."

He grinned. "You're not either."

When he looked up, he found her glittering gray eyes centimeters from his stare. She smiled, and her fingers started twisting through his hair again. "I kind of love it where I am."

Ditto, he wanted to sigh. Where she was, where he was. Love. Moving seemed overrated and underrated all at the same time. If he forced himself to fight inertia, the warmth he felt could turn rapturous. If he fought.

Ten. Nine. Eight. He stared at the way she lay beside him, relaxed, open. Seven. Six. The languishing sluggishness of finishing began to bleed away, and he felt himself tense as need began to override everything else. Five. Four. Three. He thought about the way she quivered when she came, about the long climb that was so, so worth it in the end. Two. Oh, yes. His fingers clenched as he arrived at one, and his body didn't want to be still anymore. He didn't want to be still.

And so he fought.

The sheets rustled as he slid onto his side. She surrendered her hand to him, and he kissed his way from elbow to wrist. "What do you want to do tomorrow?" he muttered against her heat. "After the flight?"

"Mmm. You owe me some balcony time."

"I do," he replied. "And I'll gladly pay you." He dropped his voice an octave, working his way from her elbow to her shoulder. "In spades."

He pressed his nose into her neck, felt the rumble of her words more than heard them. "I can't believe we're here," she said. "Every time I think I get it, I have to do the be kind, rewind thing, and I'm back in Holy Crap Land."

"Now, who's in Egypt?"

"I'm not in Egypt."

"I won't discuss the irony of that statement," he murmured against her skin. Her hand flopped against the pillow, useless for a moment as he took away her senses, but then she started to move with purpose.

Her first moan crawled down his spine like a feather. Her knee nudged his hip, pushing him, guiding him. He shifted, growling as her hand found his back, roamed lower, and squeezed.

The reddish tinge of blush had crept across her cheeks, onto her neck, and down her chest. Her nipples puckered. Her breaths shortened. A thrill ran through him. He loved what he did to her. He loved the way she trembled when she breathed. He loved the way she didn't have to say a word, and he knew exactly what kind of landscape existed in the thoughts between them.

"I don't want this to end," she gasped.

"It won't. Let me refresh your memory."

He devoured her energy, took charge from every motion. "I, Derek," he said, "Take you, Meredith, to be my friend, my lover, my wife." He dipped his tongue against her teeth, ran his palm against the side of her cheek, and drank the moan escaping from her lips. "Loving what I know of you, and trusting what I do not yet know."

_When she walked into the aisle, a serene hush came over the crowd. Hands found his waist. He realized he'd misstepped, nearly tripped, but it was a passing, barely there, did-I-do-that? sort of thought. His heart tripped right along with him. She looked more beautiful than ever, simply because of the fact that she was there. In a white wedding dress. For him._

"I will be yours in times of plenty and in times of want," he said. "In times of sickness and in times of health, in times of joy and in times of sorrow, in times of failure and in times of triumph." She rose to greet him this time like a cresting wave. He crashed down with her in a war of movement and fleeting touches.

_She bit her lip as he took the ring from his best man. Her right palm found his, gripped it so he wouldn't shake. He worried that the engraved platinum band wouldn't fit. It seemed like such a tiny thing. But it slipped on with an easily overwhelmed catch at her second knuckle. He didn't let go for a long crawl of moments. _

_He didn't feel like he could ever let go._

"I promise to cherish and respect you," he said. "To care for and protect you, to comfort and encourage you, and stay with you, throughout the seasons of life." He plied her for every breath, every shudder, every moan.

_He clenched his fist at the extra weight, weight he hadn't felt in over a year. He brushed the band on his ring finger with his thumb. The cool metal slid under his skin. It felt right._

_He didn't blink when he met her watery eyes._

Pain blossomed as her nails made war with his shoulder blades. Her breaths ricocheted against his skin, little pants like heartbeats. In-out. In-out. In-out. Her lashes swept down over her eyes. "Entreat me not to leave you," she whispered in percussive syllables. "Or to return from following after you."

_The soft cinnamon scent of the unity candles swept against the back of his throat, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe or think or do anything but watch the fire flicker and burn._

"For where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay," she continued. "Your people will be my people, and your life will be my life."

He groaned. Mine. Yours. Ours. "Yes."

"Take me for a ride, Derek," she whispered in his ear.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, and he smiled. The glitter of her eyes flashed in the dim light.

"I can do that," he said.

_fin_


End file.
